


On Matters of Trust

by Probability



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-23
Updated: 2018-10-23
Packaged: 2019-08-06 09:42:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16385597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Probability/pseuds/Probability
Summary: When Camelot faces attack by a powerful sorcerer-king, Arthur must seek the only one who can save the kingdom. Unfortunately, Emrys doesn't want to be found. Set between seasons 2 and 3.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published on fanfiction.net in 2010 (yikes). Transferred here, mistakes and all.

Safe in his chambers, Arthur unrolls the scroll for the fifth time. It isn't even a list, he fumes. It's barely a note; it's written in charcoal and the parchment is torn on one side. The arrow punched a row of holes up through the center of it, though no critical information is torn up.

_Arthur Pendragon,_

_There are three in Britain who possess the power you seek._

_One is untrained. It will be many years yet before she can match Palengard's skill. The other is a vengeful enemy of your father. They can be found in the fort at Ginsinglaus, but they are as untamable and formidable as the wind._

_The third does not wish to be found. He is masked in riddle, rumor, and a hundred different names. As I can find nothing conclusive about his whereabouts, I will resort to legends. Among the Druid, he is known as Emrys. A Druidic children's rhyme mentions he "hides in plain sight," while a ballad suggests his loyalties are conflicted when it comes to Camelot. Secretive as he is, I suspect this Emrys is your only hope._

_Do not look for me again._

The soft hum of voices, horse hooves, and livestock sifts into his room with the morning sunlight. The clang of hammers on stone as the castle is repaired jars him from his wandering thoughts.

The background noise is an incessant reminder of what he might lose.

Three in all of Britain. He can't fathom how much power is necessary to quell Palengard's force if so few possess it. It seems excessive, like sending an armada to capture a merchant ship.

He shakes his head firmly. Camelot is strong. It withstood a dragon, it withstood an army of the dead, and it withstood infiltration. Palengard is taking no chances, but Camelot will withstand him too. It echoes in Arthur's mind, revealing the hollowness in his certainty.

This letter, filled with vague legends and written by a traitor, is his only lead. The parchment begins to quiver in his hand.

He lets out a long breath, breathing out the tension in his chest, and he pretends to be calm again.

There is a crash, patters, then a _bang_ as the door knocks off the wall.

Arthur doesn't look up from his scrap of parchment, even as the uneven steps approach him. "You're late."

A breathless "Sorry" is all he gets. Arthur looks up to watch the spectacle of his utterly incompetent servant trying not to drop breakfast. Three plates are balanced on his arms and a pitcher clasped in his hands. His face is screwed up in concentration, each step hesitating.

"How on Earth did you kick that door open without dropping everything?"

"Carefully," Merlin grits out, having finally reached the table. The pewter pitcher drops onto it with a _plunk_ and water sloshes over the rim, splattering onto the wood grain towards Arthur—

"Oi!" He skids his chair back and waves his hand up high, letter safe. "Watch it!"

Merlin starts at his unexpected anger, the scrape of wood on stone, and the plates teeter and start to tip, food sliding down. He yelps and snaps his forearms together, catching the fall of everything but a single sausage link.

Merlin's relieved sigh is a whoosh, and with excruciating slowness he bends his knees, lowering until his arms are level with the table. He wiggles his shoulders as if trying to slide the plates onto the table. Then, after a pause where nothing happens, he shoots a glare at Arthur and says, "This is your cue."

With a long-suffering sigh, Arthur stands and walks to Merlin's side. He picks up the two large plates and sets them on the table; Merlin manages to set the small plate of cheese in its proper place while Arthur retrieves his chair.

"Thanks," Merlin says. He vanishes for a moment, ducking down to pick up the escapee sausage, but when he straightens Arthur sees no greasy meat in his hands. While he fills Arthur's cup, especially slow when tipping the pitcher, he nods at the parchment Arthur still has clutched in his left hand. "What's that?"

Arthur is trying to cut sausage with one hand; the link slips from under his knife. To save face, he shovels a mouthful of scrambled egg into his mouth. Merlin steps back, pitcher in hand, out of Arthur's line of sight.

Arthur swallows and says, "A possible last resort against Palengard." His head turns, not allowing his servant to fade out of his notice. It is a habit of Merlin's that Arthur first picked up on two weeks ago, when he noticed Merlin skirting the corners of his room and the sides of hallways. The behavior would be expected of a respectful servant, but Arthur is sure Merlin's reticence arises from furtiveness. And since nothing pleases Arthur quite like discomfiting Merlin, he has decided to pointedly mark his whereabouts.

Merlin's blue eyes sharpen, alight with energy, but his voice is tinged with anxiety. "You've found a way to stop him?"

Arthur ponders this while chewing his egg. He can feel the frustration unfurling in his chest, the skin around his eyes tightening. The food is suddenly rubbery in his mouth; he forces himself to swallow.

He sets the paper on the table, far from his food, but his eyes remain locked on it. "No. It's just a note from a traitor. A traitor among traitors," he adds.

"From who?"

Arthur sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose at the memories, letting his eyes drift down to the table edge. Studying the nicks, he confesses, "From the Druid I found."

There is only the thrum of Camelot below, the soothing monotony of it. He braces for the squeak of surprise, the rain of questions, the insufferable curiosity and confusion…

Merlin's voice shatters the calm. "You _what!?"_

It is a lash of anger.

Arthur looks up and meets roiling blue eyes, Merlin's face pinched into a scowl. "You went looking for _Druids? Alone?"_

Arthur leans back in his chair, bewildered.

"I mean—" Merlin stomps forward and slams the pitcher down on the table, and Arthur again snatches for the letter as water spills over— "They want to kill you! Are you stupid?" A sudden thought widens his eyes, and his lifted arms drop and his voice slips into confusion. "Why _aren't_ you dead?"

"Because I'm Prince Arthur." Merlin doesn't relax; his shoulder are hunched and his face stony. Arthur's smirk slips and he crosses his arms. "You seem to have little faith in me, all of a sudden."

Merlin is shaking his head. "You're insane," he declares, slashing a hand for emphasis. "Don't you get it? They're magical. You're no match—"

"I've taken on an entire camp before."

"With m—" he stutters and ploughs on, "An entire army helping you. And that's just made them angrier!" He starts to pace, hands waving about. "They could've taken you hostage and used it against the king. They could've killed you or cursed you. They could have given you to the Palengard. They're sworn enemies, they kidnapped Mor—" Again he skids to a halt mid-tirade, hands frozen midair.

He glances at Arthur, almost looking fearful. Arthur feels his jaw tightening, but he doesn't threaten murder, so Merlin just slumps, arms dropping to his sides. He shakes his head again, but the irritation isn't gone. "What were you thinking?"

Once sure Merlin's done, Arthur places his hands on the armrests and leans forward. "Well, now that you'll let me _speak,_ I can say I only met _one_ Druid, and it was at an inn. A busy inn," he emphasizes, "Where people would see anything strange."

Merlin still scowls and his eyes are still dark. Arthur has a lot of experience with such looks; it's the same one his father wears whenever Arthur returns from a dangerous mission.

He continues, "That Druid had to be one of the most infuriatingly disrespectful people I've ever met." The raised eyebrow conveys the tag: _And that's saying something._

Merlin's brow furrows, the worry overwhelming the anger. "But how—"

"I didn't plan it," Arthur says. "I was looking for a Druid, but I wasn't expecting one in an inn."

This does nothing to settle his servant. Arthur quickly adds, "Devon acted the part of trader, said he'd heard rumors about Palengard. He stopped acting drunk when he offered help. If you can call it help," he mutters, face darkening as he remembers.

"And you accepted it?"

Cue skepticism. Arthur leans back and his eyes lose focus. Besides inebriation, the only reason he had then is the same reason his appetite is now gone and the sounds outside no longer comfort him. Fresh memories of slaughtered patrols and burning fields sear his mind, as well as Gaius' grim declaration: _Palengard is coming_ _._ His hands clamp tight onto the armrests, remembering his father's aged face, the overheard, _There is no way to stop him._ But he cannot admit desperation, not now, so he paraphrases Devon: "Palengard is an undefeated sorcerer. Perhaps…" Even now, the words are strange on his tongue. "Perhaps we need magic to stop him."

Several seconds pass. Slowly Arthur realizes that he is staring at a wall, meaning Merlin has once again evaded his perception, and he hears only the distant hum of outdoors. His servant has been silent this whole time.

Arthur's head snaps around, but he catches only the last flickers of wide-eyed shock and turmoil before Merlin notices. His servant blinks and lets out a loud breath, exhaling it all, and Arthur can only wonder what he missed as Merlin's face settles into indistinct annoyance.

Merlin skates the subject entirely and says, "You told me you were investigating a village raid." The hurt bleeds through, and he steps forwards to pick the jug up, one arm wrapped around the body, the other clamped on the handle. He is shuffling back to his spot when he glances up and notices Arthur staring at him. Voice a bit sharp, he asks, "What?"

A corner of Arthur's mouth twitches. He is going to have a lot of fun with this hiding thing.

Merlin points out, "You still haven't told me what this _Devon_ said."

Arthur blinks, trying to reorient himself in the jumbled conversation. He shakes his head and focuses on Camelot. It's much simpler.

Unrolling the parchment, he says, "Nothing of use. He agreed to do a little digging, though, and sent this today." It is hardly a complete retelling; Arthur omitted the hours of prickly threats, insults, wheedling, and bribing. He also left out the method of delivery: an arrow shot through his open window before dawn this morning, shaft piercing the letter.

"It's too easy," Merlin says quickly. "He can't be trusted."

Arthur tries to summon a retort and fails, so he says, "That occurred to me." He picks up his fork and twirls it in his fingers, watching the silver glint. "But the Druid broke a law in his clan and was banished years ago. He is bitter towards my father, but not murderously so."

"I was wondering why you didn't run him through on the spot."

Arthur sets the fork down. "I was tempted, if for nothing more than his attitude. You seem a cowed puppy in comparison."

Merlin scowls. "I can fix that."

Arthur pretends to read the letter and says disinterestedly, "The stocks do seem a bit lonely as of late."

There is silence. Then Merlin begins tapping his foot. Arthur can only stand a half-minute of it before he says, "There's a cure for that, you know. It involves chopping the diseased feet off."

"Do I get to read the letter or not?" The sulkiness drowns the feeble attempt at irritation.

"That depends." Arthur hoists his feet onto the table, just missing his breakfast plates, and puts on his best royal arse expression. "Have you mucked the stables today?"

Merlin's darkening look shows that he's already caught on. But when Arthur raises his brows, he mutters, "Not yet."

"What about my laundry? My chainmail? The supplies from the expedition you were supposed to put away last night?"

Merlin glowers. Arthur's face splits into a wolfish grin. "Go on then." He waves the letter in his hand, taunting. "Consider this your motivation for not bungling _every_ chore today."

Merlin breathes an insult—Arthur just catches "prat" out of the words—and steps to the table, but then there are three quick taps at the door.

Arthur stands, slipping the parchment into his pocket as he calls, "Enter."

"My lord." It is Gaius, but his face is drawn and his words anxious. "Your father requests you come immediately."

Something clenches Arthur's chest, and he has to ask, "What is it?"

Before Gaius can answer, the sounds change. The yells shift from energetic and erratic, the sounds of a market, to something quieter and quicker. Confusion. The construction work has stopped. A scream pierces the drone, making Arthur jump. Running steps. A horse squeals. And suddenly the yelling is everywhere, muffled only by the glass and stone of the castle, and for a moment he's back facing the dragon—

"It's Palengard," Gaius says, but Arthur has turned his back and he crosses to his window in four long strides, not sparing his servant a glance as he passes. "He and his sorcerers have begun their preliminary attack."

Arthur flings his windows open and chaos fills his ears. He looks down to see people running, people staring, and many pointing out…

He follows their outstretched hands to where the fields meet the sky, and his heart starts to thrum against his ribcage. A breath catches behind him; Merlin must see it too. The sky is turning dark red, bleeding out from the horizon. It is only a narrow ring now, but Arthur doesn't doubt it will grow.

Arthur stares, but even as no clear thoughts enter his mind, his hand drifts to his pocket. There is the fragile crinkle of parchment against the fabric. _Emrys is your only hope._

Palengard is turning the _sky_ red.

He whirls around, startling Merlin into a quick back-shuffle. He meets Gaius eyes, and he can see the same hopelessness his father failed to hide.

"King Palengard," Arthur says, voice tight, "he is the only one behind… this?" He waves a hand, suggesting the noise and the sky.

"I suspect. Even if there was another strong enough, Palengard would not let such a threat into his court."

Arthur takes a deep breath, bracing himself. For what, he's not sure. His hand closes around the parchment, and he forces his voice to be strong. "Gaius. There may be a way to stop this."

The physician does not look optimistic, but there is a hint of skepticism, which is better than outright refusal. For some reason, his eyes shift left, to where Merlin must be, but his attention leaps back when Arthur continues, "I need you to promise you will help me."

"You know my loyalty." Confusion furrows the man's brow. "Why do you ask this of me?" Arthur doesn't miss the tension tightening the man's shoulders or the sharpening in his gaze.

Arthur's heart still rattles against his ribcage. He is dipping into treason, but there is only desperation as people holler below. A child wails.

"I need to find someone," Arthur says. _Your only hope._ "You may be able to help." He allows himself a moment of hesitation, then he says, "I need to find a sorcerer."

Shock flashes across Gaius' face, but he quickly forces it to reflect disapproval. His voice, however, is gentle, nearly pitying. "Arthur, no common sorcerer can hope to face—"

"I know," Arthur says. "But there may be one." There is no recognition on Gaius' face, only wariness. The man weaves his fingers together. Arthur adds, willing him to know, "I need to find Emrys."

_Crash._

Water splashes across the stone, and the metal of the now-empty jug rings as both turn to stare at Merlin, his arms curved around air.


	2. Chapter 2

The conference with his father is long and grim, and the image of troops marching under a red sky will not leave Arthur's mind. He plays with the leather of his sword belt and grips the pommel of his blade while nobles present their strategies like merchants flashing silks.

When Gaius suggests someone calm the hysterical populace, tell them the sky is only a scare tactic, Arthur stands and strides halfway to the door before he remembers to say, "I'll do it."

Citizens are flooding into the courtyard, demanding safety within the castle, the two guards helpless against the tides of women clutching children. Arthur tips his head back and sees blue, his view of the horizon blocked by the stone walls; he cannot tell if the red ring has grown in the past hour or not.

Once he steps off the stairs the swarm of brown encircles him, drawn to his vivid shirt and glinting sword, and for a moment he fears they will trample him. He flings up his arms and silence radiates out until he can hear a raven caw. The quiet is worse than the panic; everyone stares at him, and in their eyes is not reflected his face, but the face of a dragon slayer, a savior that can banish this curse with his infallible words.

* * *

Uther ends the meeting after nightfall, and Arthur says he wishes to dine alone. Among the nobility, it is not a lie, but when Merlin is the serving man it leaves a false taste in Arthur's mouth.

Arthur can do little in his search for Emrys tonight, but before he returns to his room, he orders the scribes to write the announcement: As of tomorrow, anyone caught after sundown is immediately suspect for treason. No one is to leave the city walls without inspection by the guards. Soldiers will search homes and question citizens on the whereabouts of sorcerers, since they are surely on the side of Palengard. Arthur cannot say he wants the help of a sorcerer; his father obviously does not know, and many of Camelot's own citizens have come to share Uther's fear.

When he opens his door, the first thing he notices is his servant jumping up from a chair, startled. He tucks his hands behind his back as if in respect, but Arthur catches sight of parchment in one fist.

Before Arthur can think of the best way to make Merlin squirm, his servant snaps, "Where have you been? Your dinner is cold, and now I'm going to have to return it to Meredith and she's going to hit me with her ladle again because it's _my_ fault you never make eating a priority." He glares at his master, and in his gaze there is only Arthur, moral prat who's late for meals.

Arthur can't help it, a corner of his mouth twitches up, and he decides cold food will suit him fine in the coming days.

The problem is, next morning Merlin doesn't shake his shoulder to rouse him, an improper gesture Arthur has always been too sleep-muddled to chastise him for. Instead the prince blinks in the glare of curtains flung open, and instead of chips of sapphire there are wide eyes like moss in mud, and instead of "Look, I'm not late today," the little boy squawks, "Good morning, milord."

* * *

"My lord?"

Arthur spins around, shoving the nightstand drawer shut behind him. "Gwen," he begins, but cannot think of a suitable continuation.

She stands at the bottom of the stairs, looking up and into the room, a basket propped against her hip. Her face is blank with surprise, not yet suspicious.

His mind swims through shreds of thoughts and nothing coalesces into a story because her cheeks glow like caramel and he is snooping in his vanished manservant's room…

"Have you seen Merlin?" he asks, voice lamed as he scrabbles for lies.

She blinks, gaze sharpening into confusion. She shifts her grip on the basket, and Arthur sees it is filled with scraps of linen. "No, I thought he was with you."

His hands curl and uncurl, frustration unfurling in his chest.

Gwen's brows crinkle. "He never showed up for work? At all?"

"No." He can't bite back the words, not when she looks at him so expectantly. "Some little runt—kid, woke me up this morning, but all he knows is that the cook told him to serve me until further notice."

"Is he Philip?" she asks, voice heavy with potential sympathy.

Arthur flicks the thought away with his hand. "Don't know." He lets out a long breath through his teeth, glaring at Merlin's cupboard. He'd stormed into the room just minutes ago, mind filled with visions of reprisal, only to find the first streams of sunlight spilling across the floorboards and the faint smell of mint in the air. Searching the room was a spontaneous decision, a distraction arising from his refusal to consider the implications of Merlin's absence.

Gwen pads up the stairs. She has to carry the basket in front to fit through the doorway. Scanning the room, her mouth opens in shock. "It's…" She trails off, staring at the made bed.

"I know," Arthur says. The whole room is the neatest he's ever seen it; the sock peeking out from under the nightstand is the only thing object out of place. Implication weights his next words: "Most of his clothes are gone."

Her eyes snap back to him, wide and rich with unhidden emotions. "Gaius hasn't said anything about Merlin leaving." Softly, she wonders, "Why would he leave without telling anyone?"

The answer worms under the barrier of incomprehension in Arthur's mind, dark and ugly. When he speaks, the words taste as bitter as his voice sounds. "He ran away." His gaze drifts to the window and he can see the red has reached a third of the way up the dome of sky. It is like ink on wet paper, bleeding unevenly and purple at the edges. "He decided it was hopeless." Even as he tells himself the action is understandable for a rural peasant, the betrayal burns in his chest, thrums hot in his muscles as his hands clench into fists.

Gwen's sharp gasp draws him back. "Merlin's not a _coward_. He would never abandon you." After a flustered breath, she adds, "Or Gaius, of course."

Arthur knows, had known even as he spoke, but now he's left cold without an explanation. "Then where has the idiot _gone?"_

She shakes her head, frowning with worry. A loose curl bounces. "It's not safe to travel alone, especially now."

A breeze trails across his cheek, and Arthur glances at the window. It is crissed-crossed with metal frames, the glass clear to show the city stretching out beyond. He waits, and air skims his skin again. Stepping closer, he finally notices that the image is not dulled with dust and grime in the bottom right pane. The colors are too bright. When he reaches out, his hand passes through the square.

At this closeness, he notices the cracks in the remaining panes. The top left is nearly divided in half with a ragged line, with smaller cracks branching out.

Arthur frowns. "Do you know why it's broken?" he asks. He studies the lines like a map, eyes tracing the tributaries to the main jagged break. If it were damaged from the dragon attack, it would have been repaired two weeks ago when the workers completed this wing of the castle.

There is the slightest pause. "No."

Arthur looks at Gwen, and her eyes meet his for just a moment before lowering to the basket. "Guinevere, you really are the most terrible liar."

She blushes, and it only deepens when he takes a step forward. She will not meet his gaze, staring into the waves of fabric.

"I really don't _know,"_ she says.

"Are you sure?" he asks, just a bit cheekily, and takes another step.

She's burning red, but she says, a bit firmer, "Yes."

They are only two feet apart. "Come now, you're Gaius' assistant. He hasn't complained to you about a shattered window?"

She shakes her head. Then she makes the mistake up glancing up, and she crumbles. "He hasn't; that what's odd. Merlin hasn't even mentioned it."

Her gold-flecked eyes fill with worry, with fear, and Arthur says anything he can to bring back the brightness. "I'll find him; don't worry." As an afterthought, he adds, "Though I may kill him after."

Gwen laughs, that beautiful little laugh with the smile that shows all her teeth and bunches her cheeks, and Arthur feels he can face the day of strategizing with a light heart.

Before he loses the strength to leave, he says, "Duty calls, my lady." He bends in a slight bow and, emboldened by her smile, swoops down and kisses her cheek before walking past, his nose now filled with lavender.

* * *

Like many mornings since his father died, Merlin wakes yelling.

This time his shoulders ache from sleeping on flagstone, and Gaius doesn't stagger to him and grab his shoulders, doesn't tell him empty things, things like _Calm down_ and _It was a dream._ Gaius doesn't jar him from the nightmare and he stares into the empty eyes of his father as Arthur liltingly mocks, _You failed, traitor; your sins will find you, find you, find you,_ and grief rips another shriek from his throat as magic threatens to lash out—

He snaps into reality when the baker kicks him in the gut.

The force slams him against the wall and the air rushes from his lungs _._ The pain and inability to breathe knock the confusion from his mind, just in time for him to process the conclusion to Ged's elaborate string of insults.

"Crazy bastards, always lurking about behind my bakery as if it's alms day at the church. Do you see a steeple, madman? There's nothin' for ye here! Get!" Another kick, this time at his ribs. "I don't deal with the possessed! Damned bastard cursed by God and Satan…"

Merlin scrambles onto all fours—his chest is still frozen—and he's in a crouch when Ged kicks his rear. His chin cracks on the stone as his limbs sprawl and he just can't breathe and black circles his vision—

Then he heaves in air, and he's choking and spluttering on it, and the dark recedes. Overhead, he hears, "Wait, I know ye."

Merlin tries to deny it, but all that comes out is a wheeze, so he grabs his pack and scrambles up. Ged calls, "Wait," but Merlin disappears around the corner, and the man does not give chase.

Merlin stumbles into the alleyway between the inn and the seamstress, just across the street from the bakery, and plops down behind empty mead barrels. Breaths still hitching, he rubs his tender stomach and shakes his head as if its contents will settle into place. His tongue stings and he swipes at the corner of his mouth; his hand glistens with drool and blood.

When Merlin had returned to Gaius' chambers late yesterday, he found the man at his workbench with three leather-bound tomes, each thicker than a brick, open in front of him. His hands rested on the table, supporting his stooped frame, but his eyes were sharp when they met Merlin's.

"Arthur expects me to help," Gaius said. Merlin shut the door behind him and crossed to the light of the fire. "What would you have me do?"

"Tell him Emrys is far away," Merlin said. "Send Arthur on a quest."

"He will take you with him."

Merlin's jaw clenched as he began to pace. "Tell him you need me here to help."

"I have Gwen for that now."

He ground his teeth. "I won't be able to do anything if Arthur and his soldiers are scouring Camelot."

There was a moment where the fire crackled. The corners of the room were black, but firelight made closer shadows dance. When Gaius spoke, his voice was weighted with resignation. "You have a plan."

Merlin told it to him. He never stopped pacing, and at some point his fingers started to twist around each other, tangling and untangling.

Just after he finished, a log collapsed in the fireplace; Merlin shifted his attention to the shower of sparks and they formed the shape of fiery bird, rising into the chimney. His stride didn't break.

Gaius didn't criticize the trick; he had larger causes of alarm. "Even for you, this is dangerous. You are gambling all of Camelot on your speed."

Merlin tensed, the fire warming one side of his face, then the other each lap. "I've beaten worse odds."

"Even Sigan could not turn the sky to blood."

Merlin's pacing stuttered and his shoulders shivered, a sliver of cold piercing his chest. Voice too casual, he asked, "Is that what it is?"

"I'm guessing. There are tales of such a curse."

"Seems a bit theatrical."

"Perhaps, but it's working. People are terrified."

Merlin swallowed, forcing himself to go back-and-forth, back-and-forth.

Gaius tried a new tactic, voice shifting to near-pleading. "You are leaving Arthur unprotected."

His breath caught at the notion— _They will have died for nothing—_ and blame ignited him; he twisted to face his mentor, one arm out-flung. "What choice do I have? You know it will be hopeless if I stay!"

Shadows flickered over Gaius' face and settled in the creases. The physician's eyes narrowed, studying Merlin. "You have always been exceedingly self-assured. Why do you doubt yourself now?"

Merlin's gaze fell to the floor, shoulders curling under an unseen weight.

"Merlin…"

His voice was laden with suspicions Merlin would rather not discuss, so he said, "I do not trust the Druid." He studied his boots as if answers lay in the stains. "I'm afraid Arthur's being led into a trap."

"That, I can understand. But that does not answer my question."

Merlin looked up. Guilty under the scrutiny, his gaze slid to some glass bottles, and while watching the warped reflections of the flames, he said, "It doesn't matter. I have to leave tonight, before the search gets underway."

"You don't even know where to go!"

Merlin shook his head. "I can find my way." He tapped his temple meaningfully, mouth curling in a grin that crumpled when Gaius' scowl didn't soften.

Once packed, he snuck out of the castle and began to lay a protection spell around its walls. He hoped to finish in two nights, then begin his journey. But the night was halfway over before he even started, and exhaustion made him curl up behind the nearest building two hours ago.

Now the sun is pale with the early dawn and fog curls in the corners of the alley. Merlin's watches the wisps of his breaths twist and dissipate in the chill. Rubbing his upper arms, he reconsiders his plan. He can work during daylight, but someone will certainly notice him carving runes into Camelot's stone. It doesn't help that the majority of the city can recognize him on sight now; rumors of his involvement with the dragon slaying have made him the target of much finger-pointing.

He tilts his head back against the timber frame of the inn and studies the line of bruising between red and blue. With a grimace, Merlin grips the top of a barrel and pulls up, promising himself a dreamless nap once the sun has burned the fog away.

* * *

On Wednesday night, Arthur's jaw is so tight it aches. Philip is tugging on the guardbrace straps, and it takes twice as long as it should to tie them. When he does finish, Arthur lifts his shoulder, and the metal plate flops against his chest. "It's loose," Arthur grits, biting back more words than his mind can hold.

The kid can't be more than seven, and that is the only reason Arthur hasn't throttled him yet. His incompetency challenges even Merlin's; if it were not for Philip's unveiled adoration for the prince, the runt would already have the title of Worst Servant Ever.

Pressure burns his jaw and teeth, and Arthur almost turns right there and stalks to Gaius' chambers, demanding answers. But he already did that twice today and three the day before; the quarters were always abandoned, and Arthur didn't linger in the unnatural silence. Swept up in the tide of action, he is lucky to find a moment to eat, much less investigate a missing servant.

While Philip adjusts the straps—he has to stand on a stepstool to reach Arthur's shoulders—bells ring lazy, slow dongs to mark the curfew's arrival. _Ding. Ding._ The torches flicker in Arthur's room, and he looks into the black of his window. Somewhere out there, a sorcerer roams. _Ding. Ding._ Potential leads, however, are tangled in superstitious rumors of miraculously repaired carts and stories about the screaming lunatic behind the bakery. No such testimonies have helped him find Emrys.

"All done!" Philip scurries to the table and grabs the grip of the sword with both hands. He hoists the sword off the table. _Ding. Ding._ Nearly as long as the boy is tall, Philip holds it point-down; the sheath slides off and falls in a tangle of leather and clicking metal, leaving the boy with a bare blade in his quivering arms.

 _Ding._ Arthur takes the sword; Philip snatches up the sheath, blabbering, "Sorry, so sorry, milord, I didn't mean—"

"It's fine," Arthur snaps, seizing the sheath, and the boy jumps back as if bitten. His eyes are round, and for a moment Arthur fears they are bright with tears.

The bells are calling, calling.

Strapping the sheath on, Arthur repeats, "It's fine. Go to sleep; I'm going to be out late."

Philip bobs his head, too cowed to speak. Calling, calling. Six nights until Palengard's troops reach the city. Six nights to save Camelot. Calling, calling. Arthur steps out of his room just as the bells fall silent.

* * *

Merlin has always envisioned magic as gold in his veins, but his earliest memory is of tripping over Cassie's mongrel and watching red well up from his palm. Once his mother had patched him up, he asked if everyone was red inside, and she assured him there was _nothing_ different about him, so long as he didn't do any more silly tricks. She caught him freezing puddles that afternoon.

Now his palms are raw from chipping at the walls of Camelot. He found the chisel his first night on the streets amongst the scaffolding for repairing the castle, and though the irony of Merlin's actions do not escape him, he figures his chaffed skin is due recompense for the crude carvings.

Pausing to flex his seizing hand, Merlin studies the thirteenth and final rune in the light of a conjured candle flame. This symbol is particularly complex and looks something like a table with three parallel lines above it and a bowed slash through it all. He glances down at the parchment scrap pinned beneath his knee and is relieved to see he has made no mistakes. Last night, he'd confused the third rune with the fourth, carving a tangled hybrid of lines before realizing his error.

He sets the chisel down on the alley dirt. Despite the night chill, he pushes up the frayed and soiled hems of his sleeves and jacket, then points his index finger into the carved groove.

Using magic is like playing an instrument, Merlin imagines. It takes a lot of focus, and some are more talented than others, but regardless, live magic is a thrumming like powerful songs, like the ones farmer Sampson sang only for holidays and lingered in Merlin's chest for hours.

Merlin speaks the words, and they catch magic like a harmonic, and it tugs from his heart and vibrates down to his fingertips. He traces the rune, finger trailing a line of shimmering blue.

When the entire carving glows, he pulls his hand back and the color fades. The lines, however, are dark, as if the stone is singed. He presses his palms flat on bare stone and prepares to chant the final part of the spell that will connect the protective runes, but a distant _crash_ startles his attention to the alley entrance. It is gaping dark.

Just as the echoes fade, jangling chainmail and plated footsteps ring in his ears, growing into a discordant cacophony. He clambers to his feet and turns to the left; crates and barrels tower above him. The floating candle flame sputters by his ear, a spark stinging his neck, then dies entirely in his distraction.

The noise is filling him, metallic and grating against the traces of magic in his veins. There is are yells over it—"Stop, thieves! Halt!"—and his heart stutters to find a rhythm in the chaos, and he rushes for the tower of boxes, hands scrabbling in the black for some sort of tier, a way to climb.

He hears the breaths, gasping and close; he spins and catches the shifts in shadows, the glints of eyes. They skid to a halt just feet from him, and after a moment his sight focuses enough to see two men staring in slack-jawed horror at the dead end. A knife shines in the moonlight.

" _Damn,"_ one breathes, but the words are faint under the tide of metal and the other meets Merlin's stare, but there is so much noise Merlin cannot think, his mind is filled with sound—

There is a line of cold along his throat and hot breaths against his face. "If you don' want yer throat cut, you'll say _nothin'."_ He clamps a hand on Merlin's shoulder and pulls him forward, the knife nicking skin, but Merlin is out of thought; there is only song in his blood, steady and pulsing over the din.

The man presses the knife against flesh, tilting along the curve of neck towards a vein, and rivulets of warm blood trail down Merlin's throat, and though he knows his blood is red, his mind fills with gold and humming—

Energy bursts, raw and wild, and Merlin feels the blade sear hot and hears the yell and the creak of wood as the crates sway above... The alley floods with torchlight as the soldiers round the corner, but the crates are tipping— _The lead soldier is blond_ —and the tower comes crashing down in a rain of splinters and wood and grain.


	3. Chapter 3

Arthur hears a pained holler just before he rounds the corner.

There is no time to process anything but the creaking, looming tower—Arthur looks up to see the top crate plummeting, then they all tip—before the burst of shattered wood sends shards flying outwards, and the figures are buried beneath the avalanche as Arthur hollers, "Back!"

It is an unnecessary command; his three soldiers have flung up arms to protect their eyes and are retreating around the corner. Arthur follows them, the destruction echoing to make it sound like the whole street is collapsing.

Finally, the din recedes, leaving his eardrums thrumming. Night silence returns, with only his wavering torch flame and a handful of uncovered stars for light. The moon is drifting into the absolute dark of the curse.

Warily, Arthur approaches the corner. Splinters and grain crunch under the steps of him and his men. The halo of light travels with him.

He turns and faces the alley, but darkness denies him insight. The rubble is more extensive, and he kicks aside a chunk of wood as he heads into the mess.

Walking becomes increasingly difficult over the seeds. In the torchlight, they look like the gold beads sewn onto velvet clothing. Considering the raided farmland, the grain is nearly as valuable. The wasted food pulls his mouth into a scowl, and unbidden memories of the Unicorn's famine tighten his grip on the torch.

But then there's a gasped curse and thud as one of his men—likely young Gawain—tumbles, and for some unfathomable reason, Arthur feels the corners of his mouth twitch as images of his manservant tripping in a dozen different ways come to mind.

Light slips across the mountain of rubble. Reaching as high as Arthur's shoulders at the peak, the collapsed tower is all dark wood, retreating shadows, and spills of grain. A moment later, he notices the hand splayed out from underneath, leather-skinned and bloodstained. Ice fills his lungs, momentarily shocking the breath from him.

"Clear this mess," he commands, voice frozen. His eyes do not leave the hand. He holds the torch above his head, even when his shoulder begins to ache, as his men stack the larger wood pieces against the alley walls.

They all circle around when Loxley tugs the body from the half-cleared wreckage. Blond hair matted with blood and wheat, the man is covered in splinters and netted in fine lines of crimson, the blood quickly soaked up in the dust. Though his skin is tough from wear, it is not creased; he is perhaps Arthur's age.

Loxley, the oldest and most experienced of the group, bends over the body and rests two fingers against the neck. A moment later: "He has a pulse."

The cold in Arthur's chest eases enough to let him breathe freely. He sees too much of his own mortality in the tangled, dirty man at his feet, and he would not welcome the guilt of chasing the untried man to his death.

"Search his pack."

While the others resume cleanup, Loxley pulls out copper coins, a lock pick set, a necklace chain ("False gold," the knight notes, a dark grin of irony in his voice), and a collection of buttons sewn onto a square of silk.

"He was saving them to sell at once," Loxley says, holding the glossy buttons closer to the torchlight. A couple shine with gold or silver, while another sparkles with a glass emerald. They flop and hang by loose threads, the sewing crude.

Proof enough for Arthur. "He's just a petty thief; take him to the dungeons."

Loxley nods and lowers his arms, but then there is a _ping_ of metal hitting the ground and he says, "What was that?" Arthur catches the glint rolling along the packed earth until it bumps against his boot, where it tips flat, a thick gold coin no larger in diameter than the buttons.

He picks it up and studies the pressed image of a raven with an inset ruby eye. Thin cursive scrolls around the edge, too small to read in the flickering light. "It's a seal," he realizes, and recognition clenches his heart. "It's Palengard's."

Heads turn and Alymere's eyes widen. "They're spies?"

"Unless he stole the seal from a real one," Arthur says, fist curling around the tiny symbol. Spies are strictly forbidden in the knight's code and using them is universally viewed as disgraceful; Arthur has never dealt with such a wartime violation before. That Palengard has spies should not be surprising, but apprehension makes Arthur's palms slick nonetheless.

Loxley looks down at the fabric and tilts it, face bemused. Then, pitch rising with realization, he says, "It's a pouch. The fabric is two pieces sewn together." He sticks his finger through a spot where the seam has torn, and the ridges on his forehead smooth in understanding. "He intended to keep it hidden."

Arthur nods. "He's the spy, then."

Before he can decide on the implications of such a discovery, Gawain cries, "Sire!" and the wood pile ruptures and the second man emerges, eyes burning in the torchlight, bloodied knife clenched in a fist.

"Shad!" he roars. His arms are twice as large around as Arthur's and his hair is alloyed with iron. "Shad!" His eyes scan, passing over the knights as insignificances to rest on the unconscious form.

Gawain rushes forward with his sword drawn, but the spy slashes his knife in warning. His legs are still trapped in the tangle of wood.

With his free hand, Arthur yanks his sword from its scabbard and is almost within reach when the man latches eyes with him, teeth bared in a cornered snarl. "Come closer and I kill 'im."

"You harm a knight and you will regret it," Arthur snaps, raising his sword. The spy's threat wipes any inhibition about killing from his mind.

"Not _him."_ The man glances down at the rubble and kicks a plank aside, revealing a bit of torso covered in dirty blue fabric. "Him."

Arthur blinks, thrown by this materialized, immobile presence, and before he can process anything the boar of a man lunges, plowing through wood and grain, but then there is a disembodied cry like a startled hawk and the spy trips and comes tumbling down, and Arthur leaps back, expecting the knife to flash forward, but it's knocked from the man's grip as he hits the ground and it spins wide. The fall sends up a puff of dirt, and from beyond Arthur catches the sight of two moon white hands clamped around the spy's ankle.

The spy lifts his head, but Arthur steps forward and lowers his sword so that it is a razor-thin line dividing the face in half, the point ready to cut. The man's eyes cross, staring at it.

"You," Arthur says, breaths only now speeding, reacting to the flood of motion, "are under arrest for breaking curfew and for suspicion of espionage."

The man glares up, his eyes the steel-shine of the sword an inch in front, and his lips peel back from his crossed teeth in a snarl, ready to spill damnations.

Then there is a song, a deep-throated chant from behind Arthur. It is a language he doesn't understand, a meaning slipping through the spiral of his ear bones, and he looks over his shoulder to seek the source.

The last word is like the click of a lock, and suddenly the world is on fire.

Flames flare up from the torch in his hand, spitting and unfurling, and heat and light hit his face like a smack. Hand seared, his grip loosens and the torch falls; panic processes enough for him to make a blind snatch for it, but he grasps only air. As soon as it hits the ground, the fire catches hold of the debris and dances. The first crackles reach Arthur's ears, though he can't see the fire spread because the initial burst is still in his eyes, white and hot.

There are yells, shushes of swords drawn, and shivers of chainmail. All Arthur imagines is the wood scattered along the ground and the huge pile that brushes stone on one side and panel buildings on the other; through his temporary blindness the vision of Camelot in flames is already real. There is more chanting, then an angry cry.

Arthur flies back, and his shoulders strike the wall and his neck snaps. The stinging pain knocks him back to reality. Staggering up, he blinks furiously, making the white recede from his vision and let in the chaos around him.

It is the young one, Shad, casting the spells. Arthur can see the words match his lips as he cries out now, but his curses are short, two-word shocks that knock a sword from a hand or push a knight back. Loxley and Alymere cannot harm him, but they prevent him from standing, while Gawain faces the other rearmed spy. He uses no magic, and is presumably incapable of practicing it. With a shout, Gawain charges, and the two collide in a swirl of steel.

Arthur looks down to see the fire devour the ground, turning the Earth to heat and flickering gold as it creeps towards the main pile of wreckage.

* * *

The fire is a line along Merlin's throat and every breath is a billow that flares the flames in his broken chest, but he hears it, hears Arthur's voice and he has to stop the heft of a boar towering above him, because the saving is of his own life as much as Arthur's. Every time Arthur is saved is a small shovelful to fill to the pit of guilt in his chest, but he can't bite back the cry when the spy accidentally kicks his already fractured ribs. Desperate, the shadow sliding overhead, Merlin breathes in air that bursts to fire in his lungs and grabs for the ankle flying above.

For a moment, there is nothing but sweat and coarse hair under his palms, then the tension jerks at his shoulders and drags him against the shattered wood as the huge weight tips down.

The crash is a relief, and Merlin lets go, lets the pain and fire fill his dazed mind as he curls in on himself.

He is slow to sense the magic, too late, and it pierces him only as it's flashed into the world in the form of torchlight.

Merlin's breath catches and he _has to move._ But his ankles are pinned in crates, and boards press against his shoulders and arc overhead like a cathedral, an ancient one left to fall to pieces.

And there's the pepper-scent of smoke, but he's not really on fire, it's just the pain…

It's the old dreams. The pyre, the wood and smoke cocooning and burning the sin from him until there are just pure white bones. He can't see Morgana but her voice is a ringing verdict: _You played God, Merlin._ Recently it's been hemlock, his throat constricting as if it is Arthur's stone-frozen stare throttling him. Merlin pleads with his eyes and his nails scrabble on the stone floor, but Arthur only towers above and drones, _You failed them all._

The smoke curls into his nose, but the fire is already in his lungs and mind, and when Merlin jerks it is a feeble tug against his pyre… and anyway, it's only a nightmare. He deserves so much worse than nightmares.

His eyes sting from the smoke, so he lets them slip shut.

* * *

Arthur shakes the last of the light from his eyes and darts forward, towards the sorcerer still shouting, but then the burly one looms up, and Arthur spins to face him alone. Gawain lays spread-eagle behind the man, but Arthur sees him begin to clamber up.

Arthur swings out with his sword but there is only a tiny catch as the tip scrapes across the midriff. There is no sound, as if the wound doesn't register, and Arthur steps back, adjusting his grip, trying to find his balance.

Crackling fills his ears, volume rising by the moment. Alymere and Gawain and Loxley are all shouting, and underneath there is the foreign tongue, guttural and lilting.

Blue light bursts, and when Arthur glances over his shoulder Loxley is crumpled, his armor like a pile of mirrors. The growing fire is reflected in the plates, turning the silver to gold. Shad is now standing, arms outstretched.

A growl fills his throat and Arthur turns back to his opponent, who is swaying. A tassel of blood trails down from his gray hairline along the side of his face, and Arthur lunges, point-first to pierce—

His sword seems to ram into stone and the force jars Arthur's whole arm. The spy blinks blood from his eyes, which are focusing, seeing more than the stars of a head wound and Shad's shield spell, and Arthur can only stand and feel the fire's warmth spread across his body.

"Get out of here!" he shouts, but it is faint against the chatter of burning wood. "Get help!"

For a moment he fears they don't hear him, but two flickered glances, uncertain, confirm the command. Alymere and Gawain turn tail and run for the black opening, and Arthur watches it swallow them whole.

* * *

Arthur's shout is like ice water dumped across Merlin's pulsing brain. Smoke has filled his mind, asphyxiating and clouding it, but the voice, the sharp order with a taint of panic, is clear. His eyes flutter open to see swirling smoke, trapped in the beams with him, and things are brighter than before. Fire… it is laughing in his ears and growing louder.

A stab of pain hooks his breath every time he inhales, but he clings to it now, because it is real, not the dream, not the dream. Arthur. Arthur needs him, before the fire turns Merlin to dust.

Merlin tugs, but his legs are still trapped. Through the beams he can see patches of stone wall, the charred lines of a rune. Within arm's reach.

He winces at another breath and fights the urge to cough on the smoke. He reaches out, but his fingertips only brush against the stone as his arm falls.

There is a _pop_ and wood falls behind him, settling in the warmth and the first tongues of flame. Heat is a weight between his shoulder blades. Merlin lifts his arm up, and his fingers reach the cool stone. Fighting the pull of broken ribs, he forces his arm to stay, the muscles already quivering.

Inhale, and pain bursts, but it doesn't white his mind like at first. The words slip from his mouth easier than English, curling in his throat before sliding free, lost in the sound and chaos and humming energy of another sorcerer.

For the brief moment that the magic's loose in him, it fills the gaps of pain and seems to keep him from falling to fragments, unreal. Then it pulses from his fingertips into the stone, a shimmering force that bleeds though the porous rock, drawn from one rune to the next.

It leaves Merlin hollow.

Wood shudders all around him, and the heat soaks into the back of his shirt, makes the fabric hot. Another shudder, then the cocoon around him collapses in time with Arthur's agonized cry.

* * *

It is the large spy's knife that rips into his shoulder, sliding between the two armor plates because the top one is still too loose, and Arthur yells at the fire now inside of him, cauterizing. The real fire has reached the main pile and is chewing away at it, and part of the mountain settles, the wood charred and crumbling. A building lining one side of the alley is alight as well, flames spreading like ivy.

The knife is jammed between the armor, and now the man is weaponless, and the other has only magic. Arthur clings to this in his mind, though he knows it means nothing except as a tool to steel his confidence. Truly problematic is that his right arm is incapacitated; he now has to fight left-handed with a sword meant for two hands.

He swings, a wild and uncoordinated swipe, and the man dodges, but Arthur keeps turning and catches Shad, who was creeping up from the rear, unawares. Flesh tears and Shad collapses, red flowering from his thigh. He's still shouting when Arthur twists his grip and rams forward, into the throat, and the sound chokes on the blade.

Teeth clenched and nostrils flaring—every shift causes stars to burst in his arm—Arthur swivels. He sees the spy stare with wide eyes as Shad topples forward, limp as a ragdoll. This time, the man does not yell; he just glares at Arthur for a moment, taking in the cold-colored armor and the blood shining it, and then he charges, hands curled to fit around a neck.

Two steps later, the fire explodes. A shockwave of heat buffets Arthur, and when he tries to lift a shielding arm pain sears his shoulder, snatching the air from him, and the blaze is alive with a roar like the Questing Beast's so long ago.

All the fire pulls together. The sputtering flames along the ground sweep past Arthur and combine with the larger fire that had been spreading across the building wall, and the burning mountain goes dark as the fire there joins the new, massive bonfire as well. Tall as Arthur, the conglomerate fire is in the center of the alley, alive but feeding on nothing. Then it roars and flares up, spiraling into a column as high as Camelot's walls, and both Arthur and the spy stagger back, pushed by heat and light. The noise fills Arthur's mind until there are no thoughts, just yelling fire like a thousand angry voices and the rush of hot air.

Squinting, he looks up to see a monstrous bird unfurl, pure flames, and its flickering head rises to cry out and its wings spread above the roofs and its tail melds into the inferno. A flash of a childhood fairytale, a bird rising from the ashes but the stories never said it was vengeful. He stumbles back farther, sword clattering to the ground, but the other man stares in dumbstruck horror as the bird swoops, diving, and engulfs him, its wings embracing. Through the flames Arthur sees the shadowy form collapse then shrink, burnt alive, then the bird retracts into the column and spirals down into the Earth.

And the world is a void.

Stunned by the absolute nothing, Arthur just stands. His ears ring in the silence, and no matter how he strains, he cannot see anything. Blindness and pain leave him paralyzed, unsure of his orientation in the alley.

He wonders if this is some sort of magic as well, if his senses have been destroyed. But then he smells the air, charred and laced with the tang of burnt wheat.

Shivers wrack his whole frame, rattling the armor plating. Shock from the knife wound drains him of warmth. Only the skin on his face and hands is hot, where the tongues of fire burned him. He can't think straight, can't see in this pitch… Where's Merlin, he ought to light a candle—

Arthur shakes his head, a sharp jerk to rattle the pain. Now his hearing has adjusted somewhat. Brittle wood settles, and he can just make out the sound of breathing. They are arrhythmic, smoke-filled gasps. For a moment, Arthur thinks they are his own, but they don't match the pain the jarred knife causes every time he inhales.

Someone is still here. Arthur can't remember, but the fire, the fire was magic and it saved him, so someone was helping. Someone here in Camelot, and didn't the letter say that Emrys hides in plain sight? Only Emrys could summon a phoenix, could turn the world to blazing justice like a seraph, and Arthur always feared them, they were in the stained glass of a cathedral in a visited kingdom, ringed in flames with knowing eyes…

Arthur shakes his head again and bites the inside of his cheek, because this is his chance to save Camelot, even if he does feel ridiculous talking to the likely abandoned dark. No sorcerer so powerful should wish to linger with Uther's son, but then, no sorcerer so powerful should wish to take part in this disaster at all.

His breaths are shallow and breathy. He sucks in air, summoning strength, and says, "I know you're there." His face pulls into a grimace at the wavering voice. In the silence, it is as raucous as beaten pans.

There is no response. The breaths either stop entirely or quiet, but Arthur is desperate because he can't see and the bells warned him that there's no more time—

"I saw the—the bird," he says, beginning to sway so that he can't tell up from down. "You saved my life, and probably my knights' as well." Loxley, something happened to Loxley; he's sure something happened…

"You're Emrys," he says, his tongue thickening in his mouth and causing the words to trip over each other. "I hope you are. Don't want any other sorcerers like that—" His knees threaten to buckle and he staggers; the knife in his shoulder chafes against muscle and suddenly the world is white, not black. Through the white and the pain stealing his air, he slurs, "Need you. Palengard—coming. Sauce-sorcer-sorcerer too." His legs fold under him and he drops to the dirt that he can't see. Sound is as muffled as underwater. The black is returning, a ring around the white and closing fast. Dark has flooded the world and he's choking on it, flailing. His lungs are heavy, filling with it…

He can't hear himself speak anymore, but he hopes he says, "Please help Camelot. We will not prosecute you for aiding us."

Arthur is pretty sure he only whispers the _Please_ before he drowns in night.

* * *

A round face fills his vision, words flying from the mouth too quickly to process. The voice is an annoying whine in Arthur's ears, and he lifts an arm to bat at the mosquito—

He blinks, staring at the hand raised in front of his eyes. There is something wrong with that, something too easy.

"I'm so glad you're awake, milord. The knights feared you had a head wound but I thought that the sorcerer had gotten you…" Philip continues to chatter, but Arthur is staring down at his shoulder, the space where there should be a knife blade. He should be in agony, but there is only a sting and ache, like a cut superimposed on a bruise.

Memories and perception fall back into place, and Arthur glances around, taking in the servants and knights, the two shapes—one noticeably deformed—covered in sheets, the torches, the neat piles of ashes and debris.

Arthur looks at his shoulder again. The armor plating has been removed to reveal the stiff leather underneath. He opted to wear a leather vest instead of the cumbersome chainmail, not expecting physical confrontations in his search for a magician. With a grimace, Arthur remembers the moment of hesitation as he deliberated the options. Now he wishes he had been more cautious.

Except that there's no knife. Instead, a piece of fabric is wrapped under his armpit and knotted on top of his shoulder, stretching across where the wound should be. The fabric is dyed red, though there is the deeper stain of blood at the injury sight. But that is an oval no wider or longer than a finger.

Arthur reaches across with his good arm and pokes the bloodstain. His wince is slight, and his finger comes away dry. He can see the coarse weave through the layer of ash and dust; the fabric is clearly salvaged from this alley.

"Philip," he says, and the boy's teeth click together. Arthur looks at his wide eyes and asks, "Where did you get this?"

"Milord?" He glances at the bandage but apparently assumes Arthur means something more profound, because he adds, "Get what, milord?"

"This fabric. Where did you find it?"

Philip just stares at him for a moment, bewildered at the mundane question. Then he stutters, "Beggin' yer pardon, but it was already on, milord. One of the knights must've tended to you before coming for help. But milord, Sir Loxley just came round and should be alright; he just got stunned, he says, and he told us all about the battle…"

Arthur's lets the prattling fade. Confusion flows in because he knows this fabric is wrong, but his head is pounding and his face stings with burns and he really can't think it through right now. It also occurs to him that he is possibly not in his right mind, that this fixation over a scarf and a missing knife is nothing more than the manifestation of a blow to the head.

Scarf? A man with black hair and sky-bright eyes comes to mind. Arthur lets out a long breath and pinches the bridge of his nose, forcing Merlin's image away. He takes another breath and tries to focus on anything else, because his mind is obviously not capable of rational thought yet. He listens to Philip, forcing himself to memorize the high pitch, the peasant accent, and to think of nothing else until his head clears completely.

"Oh, I forgot, sire, but I'm supposed to tell you that the court physician is coming, milord. Sir Alymere went to fetch him, so I'm sure they'll be here any minute, milord."

An image of Gaius flashes across his eyes, one eyebrow arched skeptically as he denies the existence of Emrys. _He's a myth, my lord._ And again his absent manservant, the red fabric tied around his neck. And the past days of vacant physician's quarters, silent but for the taunting echoes of his questions.

Clutching the scarf with his good hand, Arthur suddenly isn't sure he's going to like the answers.


	4. Chapter 4

Arthur is standing when Gaius shuffles into the light, holding his round case of supplies. His outer-robe is thrown over his sleeping shirt and his hair is kinked at strange angles.

"Sire, you should not be up," he scolds, not even within reach yet.

"I'm fine, Gaius." Tension and smoke turn his voice hoarse. Behind his back, he clasps the balled-up scarf in one hand.

"We'll see," is all Gaius says. He shoves his kit into the stomach of Alymere, who grabs hold with an _umph_ of lost air. Hands free, Gaius captures Arthur's face and pulls him down to his height, peering into his eyes. Torchlight shines on his own.

"Gaius, what're—"

"Checking for concussion, sire. Sir Alymere told me you were unconscious. Do you feel pain anywhere?"

Overwhelmed, Arthur's mouth opens, but all that comes out is a tiny _ah,_ an undecided word, then he clicks his mouth shut and yanks his head free. "I'm _fine._ What I don't understand is how."

* * *

Arthur tells his story hunched on the patients' bed in the physician's quarters. Gaius sits at his table, hands woven together in a knot of sinew and joints, his expression inscrutable as he stares at the red fabric Arthur placed before him on the table.

Once Arthur's finished, Gaius hesitates for only a moment before saying, "Your memory is probably hazy, my lord. You may have fallen and hit your head, and you just don't remember it. The fire could be a dream, a hallucination."

Arthur shakes his head. It is telling, he thinks, that all concerns of injury are forgotten. "The memory's clear, Gaius. That fire was sorcery, and the wound was real. "

The physician's eyes narrow, scowl deepening. "You think it's Emrys."

"Yes." Arthur catches the skepticism in the man's voice. "You disagree?"

Gaius sighs, gaze dropping back to the scarf. "Palengard is a powerful sorcerer. One of those spies was one as well. It's impossible to know who manipulated the fire."

"If it wasn't Emrys, how do you explain my miraculous recovery?" Arthur looks at the fabric scrap, fraying and mud-stained. His hands curl into his trousers and he swallows. For the first time, cold fear pools in his chest. "Gaius, I want an explanation for… this." He nods at the scarf.

For a moment the only movement is Gaius' eyebrows climbing, then he shoves back the bench and stands. "It's a piece of fabric, my lord." He pops open the lid of his supply case and unloads bottles, glass clicking on wood, his back to Arthur.

Arthur's throat constricts, and his voice is half-strangled when he says, "You know it's his."

The sounds stop, Gaius' shoulders gone rigid under the accusation. "That doesn't make sense," he says, head turning to eye the offending material.

"I know _that,"_ Arthur snaps. "That's the _only_ thing I know about this ridiculous excuse of a war."

Gaius shoots him a look, then returns to his unpacking. _Clack clack thump,_ two bottles and a suture kit. When he speaks, his words are frigid. "My ward left Camelot days ago. That cannot be his."

"But—"

"Sire, you're exhausted. You need rest."

"I want—"

"You need some time to put this event in perspective—"

"Gaius—"

"—And see things more reasonably."

Something snaps in Arthur's chest and he stands. "You will tell me what is going on!"

The fire sputters, reflected in Gaius' stare. Arthur meets it.

Then the man turns his back, voice as sharp as the glass. "There is nothing to tell. You have gone on a ludicrous search I advised against, and now you have the audacity to accuse Merlin of treason. Sire."

 _Click. Click._ Arthur is gutted. "I just want to know—"

"I prescribe rest. Good night, my lord."

Then it is just the glass and the dying fire. Arthur stands, struck still. "You can at least tell me he's safe," he says, and the hurt bleeds through.

This time Gaius leans on the table and sighs, staring down. Light flickers on his back. Finally, he says, "No, I can't."

Arthur hesitates, but Gaius doesn't look up. The bottles warp gold on the table, silent.

Arthur walks out, burning with lost faith.

* * *

Arthur forgets the names of days and refers to them only by the number left.

Day five, and he is confined to bed, though he suspects this has more to do with his mental health than his smoke-caught breaths. Nonetheless he assists in administrative work and directs his knights; the constant in-and-out of his door is like the entrance to a beehive.

The immobility drives him half mad. In the morning he strives not to think about the scarf that he has hidden in a dresser drawer, safe from Philip's compulsive cleaning, but when the boy leaves to fetch lunch Arthur clambers out of bed and retrieves the piece of fabric just to have something to study in the lulls.

His feet pad across scrubbed flagstone and the dresser is slick with polish. The room smells of cheap soap and varnish and everything _shines_ , and Arthur feels like he's in a facsimile rather than his real room.

He pulls out the scarf and stretches it between his hands, studying the patterns of mud and blood, some of which is not his own. Tentatively he lifts the fabric to his nose, and though he hacks on the smoke at first, he breathes shallower and picks up sweat and—so faint he's not convinced it's real—the clarity of mint.

Breathing that in, the room suddenly seems his own again. Why it's so familiar, he refuses to think.

* * *

Day four, and he's out all day, rushing and the panic is starting to curl in his gut. His knights are good, more than good—the finest, he's sure, but there are so few after the dragon… He doesn't sit all day, skips lunch, and only staggers back into his room after a fruitless night-patrol.

Little Philip is slumped in Arthur's chair, slack-jawed and snoring, but he startles awake and is apologizing before Arthur can form a reaction.

"So sorry, milord, so so sorry, it's just so late…" He runs to the far corner, snatching up his stepstool, and scampers back to Arthur, who stood in mild shock to watch the spectacle. Apologies spill from the boy as he climbs up and undoes buckles.

"Philip," Arthur snaps, and he hears the _click_ of the boy's teeth.

Arthur takes a deep breath of silence. The fire has nearly burned down, but there is enough to see by.

The outer armor is off before another word is said. Arthur sighs when he lifts off the weighty chainmail, and as he hands it to Philip he says, "There's no need to apologize."

The boy's head is bowed so all Arthur can see is the bowl-cut hair. "I'm not a good servant, am I?" he asks at last.

A corner of Arthur's mouth twitches. "You're better than my last one."

But Philip shakes his head. "No'm not. If I was, you wouldn't miss 'im so much."

* * *

Day three, and he steps into the physician's abandoned chambers. Most of the contents have been moved to the great hall, which has been converted into an infirmary. Only the books remain, leaving half the shelves bare and the other half crammed. Dust hazes the air like smoke, and halfway through the mess Arthur sneezes.

Merlin's door groans when he pushes it open and the floorboards creak under his feet. He pauses in the center, noticing the dust fuzzing the nightstand.

He stands for a several minutes, but the silence of absence presses his ears, and the draft from the shattered windowpane has breathed away any familiar smell.

* * *

Three days after leaving Camelot, Merlin's fingertips prickle and there's a hum in his chest.

He's in moorland, a dead land. Rocks rip through the sloped earth like fangs and the grass is faded, the color washed away. It is silent but for the hiss of wind.

Merlin would say he's standing at the foot of a mountain, but its point has been sliced off to leave a sharp plateau at the top. A ring of black stones crown it, and their teeth scrape the overcast like a wool carder.

With a mental groan—he daren't make such noise here—he begins the climb, bracing his hands on his thighs each step. His right shoulder aches, an echo of his healing. It was instinctual, a surge of his energy into the wound to heal it shut, locked with his blood on the scarf. Merlin grimaces just thinking of his stupidity, but Arthur was draining into the black and pain had seared away words but for the _Please._

Halfway up he pauses, staring at a slab of rock to his right. The scattered gravel atop it is shivering.

And he thought the sensation was just the magic, maybe another manifestation of his fatigue. The shaking pauses for a moment, then rattles, then pauses… He sucks in five breaths, stinging on air, before recognizing the similarity.

For the first time since leaving Camelot, Merlin feels relief loosen his ribs. The cave must be underfoot. The realization gives him the strength to resume climbing.

He stoops over to catch his breath at the top. He studies the crooked pillars towering over him, hesitating to enter the ring they form. They sing with old magic, the bass vibrating his heart and the high notes just out of hearing, in an octave he can't hear, only sense in the hairs on the back on his neck.

The clouds swirl around him like wary spirits. Some brush him, leaving a damp chill on his white skin, perhaps stealing a little of his life-force. For a moment he considers the implications of standing in the sky, among the clouds, but the thought makes him dizzy and he presses the heels of his palms to his temples.

Once the world stops revolving, he takes a deep, preparatory breath and steps into the ring.

The air puffs out of him as power rams into his chest and he sways, vision glaring-bright with magic. This is not the warm stuff in his blood, familiar and controlled, but a shapeless, raw power, so old the stories of it are forgotten, though he can see it now in the colors so brilliant that everything's haloed, sense it in the pillars surrounding him and in the sky so close and in the ground vibrating like a great, living thing.

He takes a cautious breath. The air crackles with magic. He exhales a week's worth of exhaustion to take in life, and he blinks, light splitting to spectrums at the rim of his sight.

He breathes deep and his spine straightens as the breeze carries away the pain.

This magic is alive, this magic is just quivering to pour through him, a conduit, and here he can do anything; he's in the sky and the ground at once, he can fly, he can fill himself with magic, drown in it, choke on stardust and become pure power and forget his past and his sins and his _name_ because he'll be stones and sky and light and night and nothing and everything at once—

A flash of a man in armor that glares as bright as the magic.

Merlin's knees buckle under the rush of returned memories, consciousness checking the overwhelming power. _A bleeding sky faces banners fire two gold eyes scales Arthur—_ His chest hitches, arrhythmic, and the air's so sharp with magic his eyes water.

The memories fill him, then he gasps in a lungful of sky, lets loose the desperation and the roar tears from his throat, louder and deeper than his wasted frame alone could summon.

* * *

Arthur never thought to find the sorcerer directly—if he did find Emrys so easily, he would question his true powers—but instead hoped the message would reach him via some underground. _The prince is after magic. The prince is desperate. See it in the circles under his eyes?_

He hoped that Emrys would find him.

* * *

Merlin falls onto his hands, listening to the echoes ricochet off the valleys. _Dragon, gone, gone…_

Slowly the void of silence swallows them up, leaving only the black stones looming over him like unmoved judges.

* * *

"What are you trying to find, my lord?" Gwen asks the next night. Philip is clattering about, sorting through the armor and weaponry scattered across the table to find the pieces for Arthur's final night of patrol. Tomorrow there will be no sleep, just preparations for the siege.

He could be sleeping now, he realizes; it would be far more beneficial. He hasn't considered _not_ going, even though he has resigned himself to failure.

The fire turns Guinevere's eyes amber, her hair braided with gold thread. In her soft face is concern, and Arthur sighs away the lie he has prepared.

"Hope," he admits.

* * *

Day zero dawns with clouds glowing red. Arthur stands atop the battlements and soaks in the sight of his Camelot, still patched from the dragon weeks ago. People filter through the castle gates, taking shelter inside, while the undulating black of Palengard's army arcs over the horizon, set against the red. The curse sealed over the blue yesterday.

He grips the stone so hard his knuckles turn white and he squeezes his jaw, the heat welcome. _You must learn to listen as well as you fight._ Well, he listened plenty, but there was no one to hear.

He burned the useless piece of fabric this morning.

Abandonment is acid in his heart. It corrodes to rage, battle rage, and he embraces the blinding urge to break the world and cauterize it clean.

A drop splats on Arthur's cheek. He swipes it, then stares at the red streak staining the back of his hand.

The blood-filled sky rumbles, and Arthur draws his sword.


	5. Chapter 5

Arthur stands next to Leon at the battlements as the soldiers spill across the fields and flood the city in blue uniforms. Much of the army is mercenary, Arthur knows; the clash of dialects and melodies scrape his skin, and the cut of clothing is unique to troupes.

A line of blood slips down his brow, and he swipes it away. He glances at Leon, his hair staining red and face frozen, and yells over the roar, "Let us hope this fall doesn't get worse. It will obscure our vision."

Leon grimaces, hinting at the mental horror, but says instead, "Watching them swarm the city uncontested is worse."

Arthur's knuckles go white around his sword, and his breath quickens in rage. He had forgone all hope of defending the outer city as soon as he heard the size of Palengard's army, no doubt reinforced with sorcerers. He collected all his men in the castle and hoped to take advantage of the bottleneck it offered. He cannot not win in outright force, but he can put time on his side.

The roaring fills his mind; he can see the tide of soldiers, flowing through alleys and up the main road, the castle in their sight. It pulses foreign syncopations, and some of the knights shift, eyes slanting nervously. The chanting rises, lurching Arthur's heart fast, and the army breaks into a trot.

"Hold!" Arthur orders, and begins to pace along the line, voicing encouragement. If they all believe, then maybe he can make himself believe too.

The volume rises again, and then the army is running, flooding, and the sheer size could knock the stone walls over. Arthur's speech doesn't break, but his heart quickens, the truth scaring it, though Arthur refuses to admit to himself that they are doomed.

He can see individuals below, hair blond or black or brown, swords overhead. Ladders float with the waves, and trebuchets are pitched, arms tied back and ready to snap.

Then the sky roars.

Arthur blinks, thinking his memories are becoming too vivid, because that was the _dragon,_ and surely the energy now must be reminding him…

But then Leon cries, "Sire!" and the dragon dips below the overcast, shining gold against the red sky and flying towards the castle.

Arthur's mouth hangs slack. The dragon roars, and the sea below shades pale skin as heads tilt up to stare.

"What—no!" Arthur cries. " _No!"_

His men are panicking, shouting questions to him, and he must snap, "Stand firm! Archers, point up!" But he doesn't hear himself say it.

"I killed you!" he yells.

The nightmares converge, and he could scream with the insanity because the dragon is _back_ and the army at the gates and his Camelot will be burned and trampled at once!

The emptiness is alien to him, and his knees lock in stupored horror. The dragon crosses overhead, the arrows unnoticed, and the wings are spread wide and Arthur is staring at his crest made real just as the first line of trebuchets launch at the castle.

* * *

Kilgarrah soars over the wall. The hair on Merlin's arms stands on end and his magic tingles, but otherwise the magical shield has no effect. Relief lets him exhale deep.

 _You doubted my honor?_ Amusement laces the question.

Though he trusted his power over Kilgarrah, he hadn't been sure how much of the dragon's compliance was genuine loyalty. He may have just been waiting for Merlin to become distracted—or dead.

"Not anymore," he says. The air carries his voice away, but he knows the dragon hears.

The courtyard slips under them, then Kilgarrah locks his wings and banks. Merlin wraps his free arm around the spine as the tilt steepens, and spires slide past. Tucked under his other arm is the dragon-forged sword, hilt and runes glowing the gold of Kilgarrah's scales. They'd detoured to the lake to retrieve it; Merlin had hesitated in the quiet, nothing but the tickle of water and rush of reeds. He wanted to stay there, to slip into the silence and float, but instead he skipped a stone for Freya—thinking no clear prayer, but a wordless plea in his chest—then he'd forced the words to rake his throat and summon the blade from the water.

Kilgarrah dips into a descent and Merlin's stomach flops. His clutches the spine, and as the tiled roof rushes up to meet them, his eyes shut.

Suddenly they balk and Kilgarrah drops onto the roof, lurching Merlin forward so he swings around the spine and his feet scramble for a grip across rough scales. The flat of the blade scrapes scales, the screech aching Merlin's teeth.

A moment later, Merlin's hanging by the spine down Kilgarrah's shoulder, rising and falling as the dragon breathes.

Merlin lets out a breath, energy shivering through him. The scales are warm across his torso, but his shoulder already aches.

The patch of roof is largely hidden by turrets and barely fits the dragon. It's two stories up, but the first has the kitchen, Merlin realizes. He unclenches his seizing hand and slides down. He stumbles on the blood-slicked slope, knees buckling and sight rimming black for a moment, but he out-swings his arms and manages not to impale himself.

Kilgarrah watches this dismount with one brow raised. Merlin huffs under the scrutiny. "It _is_ my first flight."

Kilgarrah's gold eyes narrow. _You are not invincible, young warlock._

Merlin grimaces, flexing his aching palms, and scuffs at the slate tiles. "I'll get by."

 _Perhaps,_ the dragon says, _but that will not be enough to vanquish Palengard._

The stone ring had healed him and wiped away the exhaustion, but that had been days ago, and his sleep was fitful during Kilgarrah's flight. He cannot remember the last time he ate; he scrounged a bit when Kilgarrah paused to rest, since his pack had been destroyed in the fire, but the foraging had hardly been meals.

One blood-spotted tile is loose, and Merlin pokes at it with his toe. It wiggles in its slot. Shouts and the din of battle echo off the walls, loud and distorted. "It will have to be enough," he says. With the sword point he knocks the tile free and watches it slide down and disappear. He doesn't hear it fall.

He turns back to Kilgarrah. "This will be over soon." _One way or another,_ but he doesn't send the thought.

Kilgarrah swings his head forward and crouches, preparing to launch. _Good luck, Merlin._

Merlin is oddly comforted by his name, and his goodbye is warm. _Fly carefully, Kilgarrah._

The wings snap up and dragon launches, and this time Merlin's ready for the burst of wind.

Kilgarrah tilts and vanishes, but his battle roar ricochets off the battlements and amplifies, the note of valor ringing in Merlin's own heart. It's the dragon blood in him, he figures, but he's thankful for the strength, however lent.

He takes a deep breath, then scampers across the roof.

He'd never liked Arthur's story about the unusually accessible druid. Not only had the druid been in a bar alone—which was strange enough—but he'd also been willing to give Arthur information no druid should have known. Morgause and Morgana were sorceresses, hidden far away; how could he know of their existence but not the warlock's right in Camelot?

It was Palengard, Merlin had realized during the long hours astride Kilgarrah, or at least one of his confidents. He likely knew Morgause and had made sure she posed no threat to him.

And now he wants Emrys, the only renegade left, the only one defending the Pendragons.

Merlin scrambles past a tower and continues along the roof, heading for the rimming battlements. His foot slips on bloody ground and he has to swipe red drops from his eyelashes, but so far the fall is not heavy. Beads slip down Excalibur, catching in the runes.

He's pretty sure Palengard has launched the attack because he truly covets Camelot and isn't just trying to lure Emrys out. The latter seems a waste of manpower, though he did go to a lot of trouble on Arthur when he could have killed the prince. Another way to flush Emrys out?

Nonetheless, with the shields and the dragon, the army is doomed to exhaust itself. Killing Emrys will become Palengard's priority, and Merlin knows those shields won't stop that sorcerer from slipping in eventually.

Palengard also wants the Pendragons dead. Killing them would reduce the knights to chaos and, in Palengard's mind, give Emrys no more reason to fight.

Merlin skids to a stop. It's a steep slope down, then a drop to the battlement. It's in the back, so there are only a couple knights watching for a surprise rear assault. None of Arthur's closest, and they pace, watching the emptiness beyond the walls.

Merlin catches his breath, preparing for the rush. Already adrenaline pains his heart, and the magic tingles through his palms.

 _Arthur first,_ he reminds himself. Uther will be guarded deep in the castle, but the prince will be in the front lines, a glowing target for Palengard. Merlin needs to be the target now, which means getting Arthur out of the way. Hopefully, Merlin can stage things so that Arthur will accept the sword; with it, Arthur might have a chance to defend himself against the sorcerer.

Blood soaks his hair, spatters his clothing and slips along his cheek.

_Three, two… one._

He drops onto his rear and slides.

* * *

The trebuchets snap free, and all the knights duck but Arthur. He watches the boulders arc towards the walls and finally admits, _I cannot win this._

The dragon has vanished behind him, silent and so far not attacking, but Arthur's back crawls in the waiting.

The stones arc high, one coming straight for him; it will clear the wall entirely…

Then there is a crackling; Arthur's breath hitches at the jolt, and shimmering blue ripples circles out above. When they fade back to clear, there is no boulder.

There are hollers from below, not victorious but angry, even confused; the chanting fragments.

Arthur swings his head, and the knights are gaping, jaws open, staring at the now-empty sky. Not a single boulder had actually impacted.

"It's like… a wall," Alymere says, a couple slots to Arthur's right. "An invisible one."

Arthur picks up a shard of stone and flings it out, but it passes out unaffected and he loses sight of it.

Then there is a volley of arrows from below, some alight, and the knights duck again. This time Arthur has the sense to kneel, but he peeks his head above to watch.

The air lights blue at each tiny point and the arrows vanish to dust. Arthur can see it float down in little puffs where the arrows hit the… the wall? It ripples like water yet crumbles boulders.

"What is it?" Leon gasps.

"It must be sorcery," Tristan says, but his voice is hesitant with the obvious issue.

"It must be a trick," Leon says. "To confuse us." Because the sorcery can't be acting _against_ Palengard.

Arthur stares, the blue shimmers fading to clear. It is a pure blue, almost pale, and he recognizes the shade. Something stirs in his heart, tightening the skin around his eyes, and he snaps, "Fire an arrow."

"What?"

"Now. Just one; fire straight out." His voice is hard with the strain of hiding the hope.

Leon picks up his crossbow and fires. The arrow sails out and vanishes into the army below.

"It didn't react," Leon says. His brow furrows, but he won't voice the treason.

Tristan, young and hair moppy brown, says, "My Lord, is it…"

Arthur is frozen in shock, but he remembers the blue, once a shining globe. Hope flows warm wine into his chest even as he tries to fill himself with warnings not to trust magic, no matter what, and this shield could fade at any moment—but the light had not.

His head jerks a small nod. He whirls and cries, "Fire at will!"

His arrows sail out just as Palengard's army launches another volley; Arthur's arrows hit below, the first cries of pain slicing up, while Palengard's burst to dust with glimmers of blue.

His knights half-lower their crossbows, wide-eyed and looking to each other for an appropriate reaction, and Arthur's lips peel back in a fierce grin.

* * *

Merlin runs, and few even turn to glance at him. Those who do have war-dimmed eyes and spare him no attention, probably unaware he'd ever been gone. He clings to shadows, sometimes ducking into the castle to take more obscure routes, and slowly winds his way towards Arthur.

He dodges up the stairs leading to the front walls, and emerges to a barrage of noise. He stumbles at the impact, but shakes his head to clear it and glances up to see the dragon dive, burning Palengard's army. He rises with men in his claws, and once high enough Merlin can cover Kilgarrah with his palm, the dragon lets them fall, their limbs spread wide like stars.

Merlin grimaces, feeling illness in his chest as if his heart is infected, but he forces himself forward in search of Arthur. His wall can keep out the nonmagical, even the weaker sorcerers, but the runes will not keep Palengard long. Blood spatters his shirt purple.

He ducks low and huddles in a divot in the wall, then focuses… there's warmth in his chest, and he mutters in the Old Language, _Find Arthur._

He is a white flare in his mind, right at the front of the defenses as Merlin suspected. He lets the spell fade. Without complicated materials and time, such a spell has a limited range; even from his current position, Merlin had felt Arthur in the outer third of the spell's ring.

"Now," he murmurs to himself, "For the fun bit." He props the sword against the wall, cups his palms, and murmurs, "Don't be daft, Arthur." Drops of blood have fallen into his palms already, so he quickly summons the light.

* * *

When the blue orb floats across Arthur's vision, all he can do is lower his crossbow and stare. He would be shocked, but considering there is a magical shield fending off Palengard and the dragon is not only alive, but _defending Camelot,_ Arthur finds himself rather drained of surprise.

Instead, he says, "I can see fine."

The orb is only about half as large as before, but it swirls that same blue-white light. It floats to his face, so close Arthur draws his neck back and his vision is filled with light and he can feel the warmth, then it sails off, down the battlements. It pauses several meters down when Arthur doesn't follow.

"Sire?" Leon asks, staring at him worriedly. "Are you injured?"

Arthur blinks and turns to Leon, but there is no panic in the man's eyes. He hadn't seen. Or maybe he can't? The thought disturbs Arthur, and rather than risking claims of madness, he says, "No." Gesturing to Palengard's harmless army, he adds, "How can I be?"

Leon doesn't quite smile, but his voice carries humor when he returns, "You could drop your crossbow on your foot, I suppose."

"You're confusing me for Merlin," Arthur says, then blinks at the cold loneliness in his chest. "I'm going to circle around and make sure all sides are holding. Take over for me."

"My Lord." Leon nods and turns.

Arthur approaches the light, bobbing at eye-level, and says, "I'm not lost, you know."

The light spins a little loop and floats on. Arthur breathes out through his nose and glances out at the army, stretching beyond the walls, though the front is a carnage of fire and arrows. Even grappling hooks and ladders burst to splinters upon hitting the magical shield. Guilt twinges in Arthur's chest at the slaughter; it seems a violation of his honor to not give those men a proper chance to fight. That he had nothing to do with the magic and the dragon is beside the point.

But then he looks the other way, down into the courtyard, and sees a curly-haired woman in a lavender dress hauling water from the well. Gwen, he hopes, stocking up while she can… but so far the infirmary will be empty.

This realization dims the shame in Arthur. If magic has risen to his aid, then it is merely a mighty irony for Palengard, and certainly deserved. He can worry about the morality later, after his people are safe. His father would rather die than accept this magic, Arthur knows, but he is not so strict. He can easily give his life to Camelot; surely he can give his honor?

The globe bobs in his face again, and Arthur swats at it. It dodges. "I won't leave the battle," Arthur snaps.

It orbits twice around his head and floats on. The light swirls faster, impatient. He keeps his sword drawn and murmurs, "I must be insane."

Arthur follows.

* * *

The tear is like a shiver up Merlin's spine and he stumbles, breath cold. His hands shake and he gasps as the blood spots him, and slowly the rip seals itself. Still he feels chilled, like someone had crept up and stolen from him. Palengard is in.

"Well, that didn't take long," he mutters, then he runs.

He doesn't think about where he goes; the point is to be a moving target and keep the orb shining a safe distance behind. Arthur will follow in the crazy zig-zag, Merlin blindly leading, and without a pattern it ought to keep Palengard busy.

He runs up, down, loops, doubles back, exits the castle then ducks back in through the kitchen… he only avoids the main floor, where the infirmary and familiar faces will be. Otherwise he keeps his mind schooled blank, in case Palengard should have some sort of future-sight. It will be useless if Merlin has no intention to discern. He counts his stumbles and trips, just to keep his mind busy.

He runs down a disused wing, scavenged of most furniture and the rest left covered. The stitch in his side hitches sharp every breath, so Merlin ducks into a stone room, smaller than the council chambers and lacking the pillars, with only slits of stained glass for light.

He skids into the room, sword clutched in hand, and looks straight into Arthur's eyes.

* * *

"Arthur," Merlin says, back-stepping automatically, bewildered. "But how did you—"

Arthur's eyes narrow into a glare, choking off the words. Merlin's palms slicken cold, and the glass stains Arthur's skin into shifting patterns as he takes a step forward.

Merlin backs, but suddenly Arthur rushes and Merlin cries, "Wait!" and huddles, sword raised in a half-hearted defense… then Arthur skirts around him and swings the room's doors shut. Though this isn't a good thing, not really, Merlin can't help but sigh in relief at the quiet and hope Arthur is willing to talk. There'd surely be no other need for privacy during a war?

Arthur turns and lifts his sword. "Hello, _Emrys."_

Maybe not. Arthur's shoulders lift with each breath, eyes surging that same tidal rage from when he'd attacked Uther. Merlin quails under the hate, the dreams brought to life, and in his panic he thinks _talk talk talk_ because it has worked before and surely it'll work again? "Arthur, please, I can explain everything if you'd just—"

"You've betrayed me!"

The sword weighs heavy in Merlin's hand, the tip centimeters above the flagstone. "No no no, just listen, I've always been loyal to you—" Arthur's mouth twists and Merlin swallows his words, realizing that this isn't working, that more talking is only more lying in Arthur's mind. His voice drops, slowing. "I've betrayed the law," he admits, hoping the confession will help. "But I've never betrayed you." The sword tip touches stone with a single high chime.

Arthur shifts his weight, still angry and ready to fight, but he hasn't lunged. The words crunch like broken glass. "You lied to me."

"Of course I did," Merlin says. "I'm no good to you dead."

"You're Emrys." He lifts his sword a little higher, and Merlin flinches, the name whispered high in his mind, a fate more than a name.

"I'm Merlin," he snaps.

" _Liar."_ Arthur stalks forward, and Merlin stumbles back. A small door's tucked in the far corner, and Merlin dimly remembers a spiral staircase to an isolated balcony, an overlook overrun by centuries of the castle's expansion. "You're a sorcerer, even worse than Palengard."

He's so close, and he swings wildly; Merlin ducks and scrambles for the door with a panicked yelp. The door flies open before he reaches it, and he cringes at the show of magic before charging up the spiral stairs, Arthur's chasing steps echoing up and past.

Merlin staggers out on the rampart, little more than a balcony with higher wings and turrets encasing it on three sides like blinkers, though there's an angled view of the castle gates from the fourth side. Sound fills his ears, roaring and screaming, and he's halfway across before processing that there's no door on the far side, nowhere more to hide.

The flat of Arthur's blade swoops around, and his ankles hook over and he tumbles to the stone, holding his sword wide from the fall. It'd be just his luck to impale himself on the sword meant to save them.

A point presses between his shoulder blades, at the divot between two knobs of his spine.

Arthur circles around, the point pivoting as he comes to face Merlin. Merlin looks up, the glowing red sky from behind casting Arthur red and black, and blood slides fresh across his armor.

"Get up." And Merlin's eyes slide shut and his forehead drops to the sticky stone, because that's ice, an order from state Arthur, justice Arthur, executioner Arthur. The sword is lifted, and Merlin sits, mind full of battle cries and incoherency. Before he can stand, Arthur crouches to his level, eyes pulling oceans and blood rusted in his hair.

"What—" Merlin leans back, but then Arthur's hand grabs the nape of his neck and yanks him forward until their foreheads are only a breath apart and Merlin sees the currents of rage in the lines of Arthur's irises.

"You're evil," he says, words breathed hot, and the wind hisses.

Merlin stares into Arthur's eyes. _Evil,_ he thinks. It is a new name, like when he first heard Emrys, and he tries it. _I am Merlin. I am Emrys. I am evil._

_I am evil._

He shakes his head, and Arthur's hand clamps. Merlin says, "No, you don't—"

"How many," Arthur says, voice low and thick as underwater, "have died because of you?"

Blood patters off the stone, muffled more than rain. Merlin can't breathe, and Arthur continues in that slow-drowning voice, "You've killed for your pride. Innocent people, friends and family. You have killed monsters more human than yourself."

 _Not human,_ and he winces at childhood fears of gold blood. He surfaces long enough to gasp,"But destiny—"

Arthur barks a laugh and stands, air brushing free behind Merlin's neck, and his top lip peels back in a sneer. "Is that what you tell yourself at night?"

Merlin stands, staggering back, but Arthur swings out his sword and herds Merlin sideways towards the open wall. "Does _destiny_ justify your crimes?"

The tip of Merlin's sword scrapes stone in a hoarse scream; Merlin swings it up, half-offering and half-defense, as the parapet cuts into the small of his back. Nightmares chill his mind, the empty accusing stares that don't fade even when he yells, the horror frightening the wind and rattling—and finally shattering—his window as he's dragged to the fire by rope, tugged by a long line of his dead: Will and Morgana and Freya and his father… and should he break free of the Underworld, Arthur snags the trailing rope, holding the torch to light Camelot's pyre. _You cannot escape the fire._

Arthur slashes, and Merlin's swing knocks; he winces shut but hears the ring. "Arthur!"

"You wanted the glory, Emrys, and became righteous. I will not be your reason for sinning."

Merlin clutches the sword in both hands, the magic prickling across his palms. He presses into the wall, fighting the instinct to defend himself, and Arthur stops, close enough to stab. "Please!" Merlin cries. "Please, even if you h—don't trust me, take the sword. It's the only way you can stop Palengard."

Arthur stares at the blade, the same gored gold of his hair. Merlin holds his breath, and stretches his arms, offering the hilt. "Please," he says, because Arthur's judgment is sounder than his own, and he suspects stark relief would make him no more innocent than those he's murdered. But surely, he thinks, Arthur knows he's too stupid to conspire? And the thought makes him want to laugh, but if he starts he won't stop until the spasms turn to choking tears and insanity, until he falls forward onto the sword meant to save them all.

The blood spatters the stone. A line slips between Arthur's eyes and trails the side of his nose, and a drop hits the top of Merlin's lip, but he daren't move to swipe it away. Missiles thud bass as they collide with the shield, a low beat syncopated to Merlin's heart and Arthur's breaths. It is a current to the waving tides of yells.

He expected to see the betrayal vividly, an acid pooling in the curve of Arthur's scowl and the sheen of his eyes, but instead he is stone. What curses he's thinking, what defamations he will shout in future days, Merlin can only imagine.

His hands are shaking, so he tightens his grip on the sword and forces himself to meet Arthur's ice-eyes, tells himself that what matters is the sword and the dragon and the kingdom's salvation. Tells himself that he has succeeded at what matters most.

Looking at Arthur's frozen, shattered face, Merlin knows he has never been more wrong.

* * *

Arthur stumbles up the stairs just in time to see Merlin backed into the parapet, holding out a sword to Arthur.

"You wanted the glory, Emrys, and became righteous. I will not be your reason for sinning."

Arthur freezes, blinks. No, that is himself, a copy, face twisted in disgust as he considers the offering.

Minutes ago, the swirls in the orb unwound and scattered, fading to nothing. Arthur was left in an empty hall in a wing fallen largely to disuse, and he'd waved his sword in frustration and demanded, "There's nothing here!" Then he'd heard a cry, muffled by the double doors ahead, and he'd followed the sounds.

Now, in the shadow of the stairwell, Arthur goes unnoticed by the two on the battlement. He stares in utter bewilderment at Merlin. Merlin's thin, his shirt splattered in mud and blood, his pants torn at the knees. His shirt hangs loose, the string missing, blood thick in the bow of a collarbone. Arthur thinks, _Idiot's forgotten meals again,_ then realizes this isn't Merlin at all, but probably an illusion, a conjuration or disguise like the Arthur double.

Merlin's braced against the wall, eyes locked in a desperate plea on the not-Arthur. "Please!" he says, red skies reflected purple in his eyes. "Please, even if you h—don't trust me, take the sword. It's the only way you can stop Palengard."

His arms, straight out, quiver for holding the sword, a shining, gold-hilted promise. It takes Arthur only a glance to know it is the finest sword he has ever seen, far beyond Camelot's smiths; the runes only confirm its foreignness. He imagines it humming, the song it would make when drawn from a scabbard.

"Please," Merlin says, and it's the tone of the just-convicted begging for mercy.

Arthur takes a step forward, then backs into the shadow, uncertain. He wants to charge out hollering, demanding—he wants to run his sword through that glaring not-Arthur, wants to see the eyes shine in magic and vanish, and for Merlin to be real and to _explain._ Then he thinks of Emrys and thinks that if this not-Merlin's not a figment of his mind, then he's a sorcerer, and Arthur swings his head, unsure whether to interfere on behalf of Merlin or himself.

The blade bleeds between them.

Then not-Arthur says, "Burn in Hell" and shifts his weight, a slight shoulder twist in preparation, and Arthur knows—"No!" he yells, but the not-Arthur lunges forward and his sword sinks into Merlin.

Merlin's hands fan open, clutching for the sword in his gut, and the blade of gold cries off the stone.


	6. Chapter 6

Arthur rushes forward as the not-Arthur yanks his blade free, the pull dragging Merlin to his knees. The not-Arthur soaks in the sight of Merlin at his feet, then turns, leaving him hitching on air and bowed in wide-eyed wonder to death.

Arthur lifts his sword in both hands and faces himself.

"Pendragon," says not-Arthur. He twirls the sword round, blood flying from the point. Same arrogance in his ease, but he doesn't smile. "A pleasure, I'm sure."

"What in _Hell_ are you?" Arthur snarls.

Not-Arthur grins, incisors points. "You."

A choke; Arthur's eyes flicker to Merlin, hands stained red on his stomach, as a breath wracks through his body. His eyes lift to Arthur and the blue swirls and sucks Arthur to the bottom of the sea—He can't speak, but Arthur sees his mouth move, the horrified O it makes when he fails to say, _Two!_

A jolt across his hands, like touching metal after scuffing a rug, and the sword flies from his hands and vanishes across the battlement. Arthur grabs for it, but he sees not-Arthur's eyes are tainted a deep orange.

He tisks, fading to blue. "This is too easy." He saunters forward, and Arthur drops into a habitual fighter's stance.

"Sorcerer," he spits, a dirty curse. Choking on rage, only ragged and mutilated language grinds through. "You bastard." His hands curl, uncurl, lifted to fight. His voice rises with the words to a shattered screech. "I will kill you for what you've _done!"_

Not-Arthur stops, the skin at the corners of his eyes fanning in amusement. "You are more a fool than even I thought. Tell me though, for curiosity's sake—"

Arthur growls and rushes, hands lifted to choke off the unconcerned words, but there's a glimmer of orange, matte rather than shining, and then the not-Arthur's behind him.

"—How you plan to defeat me," he finishes. Arthur skids, spins; Merlin inhales, just a meter from him, but Arthur clenches his jaw and forces himself to keep looking at his warped reflection. His last slip into distraction had left him weaponless. "After all," not-Arthur says, and his mouth twists in mockery, "There are only three with the power you seek."

Arthur freezes. From the corner of his eye fire flares, the dragon diving upon the army. Merlin rattles at his feet, hollowing, but Arthur hears the scraped air twist into a half-name like "'aleng'd."

Not-Arthur says, "It seems there are only two with the strength. I overestimated the legends, I admit." He sniffs at Merlin, now doubled forward, face pressed to the ground. Arthur sees the blood-plastered hair and an ear, his body curled small and unspeaking, and his heart's stabbed with a shard of glass. "I needn't have bothered with this elaborate act; I could have killed him outright. It's lonely, being the most powerful, but I'm sure you can relate to that, Prince."

"I am nothing like you," he snaps, the cracked anger focusing him. " _Palengard."_

Palengard smiles Arthur's most congenial grin. "But I am you. I spoke your thoughts, and followed your laws, and slaughtered the enemy. Emrys is evil by all standards." He frowns out at the battle. "He has certainly delayed my plans." He looks back, and Arthur recognizes the finality in his own eyes. "It's a shameful death, weaponless and alone," he says, sympathetic, then his lips peel back in an inhuman grin. "It's exactly what you deserve."

His hand lifts, and Arthur deepens his stance, breathing through his nose and panic sharpening color. Palengard speaks, the words sifting chants, and pulls his arm back to throw. Arthur starts, expecting fireballs, but instead Palengard-Arthur's eyes narrow. His palm is open, fingers spread, blood lining the creases. There is no fire.

From below, Merlin rasps, "Not 'lone—" A gasp. "'Ord." The word fades into the exhale.

Palengard glares down, his—Arthur's—face twisted in disgust at the dying man.

Arthur stares at himself, then at Merlin, who's lifted half-sitting on one forearm, the other stretched to Palengard. His eyes are still blue, but blood's soaked thick around him, and somehow Palengard cannot summon the magic.

Palengard snarls a curse to Merlin, and nothing happens. Merlin's eyes shut, the gasp cut off from the strain, and slumps to the side, hand dropping to the stone. But his arm still lies toward Palengard, and his body, frail like a dried leaf, rattles another breath.

Between Arthur and Merlin, the sword reflects red sky, blood pooling in the runes.

" _Die,"_ Palengard says to Merlin, eyes broken ice and jaw taught with hate. "You waste my time with this trick."

Arthur watches himself, sees this scene unfold—Merlin soaking red, Arthur spitting on his dying—and he recognizes the evil.

He scoops up the golden sword, bloody handle slick, and swings.

* * *

His eyes are blue as sky, and they widen bright with shock as the sword pierces through armor and into flesh, through the heart, the resistance real against Arthur's arms.

Arthur watches his eyes widen round. The hilt is warm through his hands. Not-Arthur gapes, unable to take in air, and begins to shake. His eyes, gone glassy with pain, meet Arthur's. Arthur stares back, horror in his heart as he kills himself. He waits for the cursed last words, the damnations, the struggle against fading light. Blood has stained blond hair.

The dying Arthur glares back—but then his face slackens in fear. His eyes turn to marbles as they recognize the dark shadows that trail an executioner, and the justice death will bring.

Arthur pushes through to the hilt.

* * *

His vision like looking through rain-stained cathedral glass, Merlin watches Arthur, haloed in gold, murder Arthur. The sword is a blurred gold thunderbolt but sound is muffled and the vision is the last Merlin will ever see.

He wonders who is real, then the sight glass shatters to black.

* * *

Arthur rips out the sword, the runes painted with blood, and steps back as the not-Arthur crumples. A blood stream flows down the panel of armor. He gapes like a fish and falls to his side, one arm twisted so the palm faces to the sky, open to accept the bloody offering, and dies the undignified death of

Arthur watches himself die and feels no pity. As the corpse shifts into a man with rusted hair and dirt eyes, he prays this future can be changed, that this is not what he's doomed to become.

The sky stops bleeding.

There is a crackle and a shimmer of blue from the corner of his eye, and Arthur whirls to see the protective shield tearing, holes stretching then snapping back into place. Then it fades back to invisibility.

Arthur clutches at the sword, palms sweating, and waits. He doesn't understand what just happened, but it can't be good, and he finds himself at the wall, leaning over the stone and staring at the emptiness. _Please hold please hold please hold…_

Suddenly a line of rocks are arcing towards him. They hit the wall, which shocks back into rippling blue around the points of impact—but three keep sailing through flickering gaps.

They hit the battlements, shattering against Arthur's eardrums, and the army roars in triumph.

The sword is dead weight in Arthur's hands. Palengard's revenge needs no words, it seems; the roaring tells Arthur that his death is still being felt.

There are three scoops in the walls of his castle.

"Damn it," he hisses, then slaps the stone and shouts, _"Why!"_ It is drowned in the tide of renewed pounding, Palengard's tattered army filled with new hope.

The wall is shimmering in and out of existence, dying. How can a dead sorcerer vanquish a wall?

How can a dead sorcerer keep it in existence?

The dragon arcs across Arthur's vision, gold against the bleeding sky. Its neck arcs up as it screams, the pitch arcing into mourning, and falls off. Arthur's heart cringes at the raw grief and he ducks his head, eyes catching the same gold and red in the sword—and just beyond, a too-still form, neck bare to the falling blood.

The sword rings the pure note of panic in Arthur's heart when it falls to the stone.

* * *

Words are spilling forth before his knees hit the ground, nonsense babble that slurs in the urgent undercurrent. "Merlin! Merlin, you idiot, get up! Get up you lazy sod…"

Arthur can see the sound missing the ears, and he reaches out because Merlin's supposed to _move,_ he's supposed to ramble and gripe and run and spill with life and even in his sleep it spills over but now that life is missing. His palms fist in the shirt and tug, and Merlin's head tilts back as the shoulders lift but he's limp—the roaring is filling Arthur's mind, no room for thought but to prove he's alive—

His finger pads press into the cold neck, slick with blood drops—and then he starts with a bolt and sees a vision like a too-sharp memory— _She is as beautiful and terrible as an angel, her lips as red as the dress and her eyes glowing with malice. "I willingly give my life for Arthur's." The vow slips free easier than he thought it would. He breathes out, happy to have this weight off his shoulders, knowing that he can save Arthur with his whole life, that he chose it and isn't just pulled in a current. Her lips, already soaked in blood, peel back into the smile death wears when called to duty. She reaches for a chalice and calls—_ And Arthur gasps and yanks his hand away, blinking away the memory.

The foreign pain swirls in his chest for a moment, then he blows it out with a deep exhale. _It's not mine._

Merlin's chest rises, falls. The flagstone beneath Arthur's knees is suddenly hot; he looks down and sees copper plating instead. _What the…?_ Just in a rectangle around Merlin and Arthur; the rest is unchanged.

Merlin's index finger twitches. Mint sprouts from the cracks in the remaining stone, and Arthur gapes.

There's a crackle from afar—the shield, dying. Dying with its source of power?

It's a suspicion Arthur fears to have confirmed; that deep-seated denial had hoped that was just another lie of Palengard's and this was _Merlin,_ who couldn't possibly do these things…

Arthur stares at Merlin's eyelids and wonders, if he lifted them, what color he would see.

Merlin's shirt, once blue, is soaked purple, and his pants have stained to rust. Arthur begins to pull off armor, hoping his shirt will stem the flow, though Gaius' voice is telling him, _Too late, far too many minutes, far too much blood._

He struggles out of the elbow guards but cannot reach behind his back to undo the guardbrace strap. He hisses, twists, then cries out in frustration. Merlin will never survive being carried down to the infirmary.

The explosion of shattering rock. A fierce roar from below.

Arthur stands, peering over the battlement, and watches the shield burst and flicker in chaotic dying. For a moment, it shimmers iridescent and hums with power—then it fragments to prisms and disappears entirely, leaving Camelot vulnerable, before wavering back to blue…

"Damn," Arthur hisses, and the desperation has him dropping and peeling back one of Merlin's eyes— _"Go! Leave! If you ever attack Camelot again, I will kill you." The grief tears his words raw, but some part of him warms knowing that this is what his father has taught him: the wisdom to wield the power._

_Kilgarrah bows, and his voice is warmer now, reassuring like a relative's. "This is what you will be."_ _And oh, how he wishes that were true, that the shining Kilgarrah has promised will not be stained by the time he gets there._

_As the dragon lifts off into the moon, the greatness folds under the crushing price for it. His only grace is Arthur—a good cause against the crimes, the only purity Merlin can hold to. When the prince asks what happened, Merlin doesn't lie when he says, "You did it."_

—Released, Arthur falls back onto the stone and curls in against the overwhelming force.

"Not mine!" he pleas. "Not mine!" And the pain quickly fade with this knowledge, though his heart's still sore with the aching.

Slowly he dares to unfold, the sounds returning him to the present.

The eye was shining gold.

Arthur sits up just as Merlin chokes, one arm flopping and fingers brush his wrist— _The spear tears into shimmering blue light as Lancelot charges, and when the griffin falls Merlin whoops, the power still sparkling in him—Another spear goes flying into a boar and it squeals. By now this saving is a daily occurrence, but there's still a glow in Merlin. At least, until Arthur slings his arm around that new rat and makes him a servant. The hurt shocks Merlin, who expected only the usual annoyance; instead it feels like the earth had shifted just for the sport of watching him fall—She's singing the loveliest thing Merlin has ever heard, and the high clear notes catch his heart like magic. Exactly like magic, he realizes…_ Slow, _and time complies just long enough to tug that gold prat out of the way—_

A flickered voice ("Arthur") and flash of a lake.

— _Each hitched breath stabs into his heart, and while she shakes her life away in his arms he turns up to the heavens and doesn't bother to beg for forgiveness, he just pleas I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm so sorry—For the brief moment that the magic's loose in him, it fills the gaps of pain and keeps him from falling into the fire. Then it pulses from his fingertips into the stone, drawn from one rune to the next. And the fire laughs all around him—"_ Arthur, I'm"— _"Better to serve a great man than rule with an evil one," he snarls, and though it came out of fight, he blinks and wonders—"_ Arthur listen"— _What a foreign sound, and he tries it. "I'm Merlin. I'm Emrys." And now he's evil_ —"Arthur Arthur"— _"I'm happy to be your servant 'til the day I die."—"_ Arthur Arthur Arthur Arthur...

"—I'm sorry."

Arthur smells mint.

Blinking into focus, he finds himself standing at the edge of a glittering lake, rimmed with mountains on the far side and woods on his coast. The air breathes cool on his skin.

He knows it isn't real because the sky is as blue as Merlin's eyes.

"Can you see me?"

His head snaps to the left and watches his servant pick his way out of the woods. He's clean, and when Arthur looks down he sees he's free of gore as well.

"What is this?" he asks.

Merlin sinks into the damp sand. He's thinner, but his walk is steady as he approaches. "You're the real one," he breathes. "Thank the gods. One of you is bad enough." Then he pulls his shoulders back, dropping the fear away. "It's not real," he says. "It's a… sort of dream-world, between the two others, that the inhabitants can manipulate—" At Arthur's look, Merlin cuts off and says, "Just consider this a lucid dream."

"Except I wasn't asleep," Arthur says. Merlin stops an arm's reach away and stares into Arthur's eyes.

"No, you're not," he agrees. "I brought you here. Well, actually, the magic did. It's going a bit haywire, I'm afraid."

"Why?"

"Because I'm dying." He shrugs and looks to the lake, palms raised to say _Oh well._ "My control over the magic is failing."

Arthur stares. His cheekbones are sharp lines, and the shirt hangs open to reveal a collar bone that juts out like a shelf. His eyes are still cut sapphires, though, and in this sharp-bright world the angles fit.

Merlin glances back at the silence, his gaze waiting.

Dear God, a chance to ask… Arthur starts to speak and chokes on all the words scrambling to come out. How can he prioritize?

"How long do we have?"

Merlin purses his lips and looks up at the sky, judging. Tilting his head in a so-so gesture, he says, "Five minutes. Maybe less; depends on the magic."

The lake shushes in and out, each breath a moment lost.

"You talk like it's alive," Arthur says.

A corner of Merlin's mouth twitches up. "It's a force much larger than me. I'm… well, time's short, but I'm little more than a channel." He frowns and stares off at the mountains. "Less than, even."

Suddenly he turns back and takes a desperate step forward. "I'm sorry," he rushes, hands half-lifting. "I'm so sorry for everything, Arthur, but please understand that I've always tried to help and I was always loyal to you despite this magic, and it was me all along even if you didn't know about this part and please please please don't hate me becau—"

"Merlin," he says, and Merlin cuts off mid-word, but his wide eyes continue to plead. Arthur swallows, his hands beginning to shake as the shock crumbles into overwhelming emotion. Deep breath, but his gaze must still be hot.

Cowed, Merlin's shoulders fold and his hands clasp behind his back. His eyes drop to the sand.

A breeze shivers the leaves. They whisper, _Time._

So many questions. Too many, so Arthur defaults to the no-fail priority of his kingdom. "Is Palengard really dead?"

Merlin looks up, breathing with gratitude for the reprieve, and says, "You killed him."

The sun shines warmth onto Arthur and the lake dances in the corner of his eye. Merlin adds, "I'm not… sure how you managed; I don't remember anything after you—he stabbed me, but some of the magic tastes of him; it was released when he died."

Arthur glares at the lake, waiting for sea monsters to come bursting forth.

Merlin laughs, and it startles Arthur, the laughter. It's something Merlin would do, but this isn't Merlin, this is an illusionary figment of a sorcerer… Merlin never was. But the thought echoes off-key.

"Magic has no allegiance," he says, "Especially now that he's dead."

Arthur is filling with doubt. None of this is real; Merlin said so. Is everything said a lie as well?

"The shield hasn't failed completely yet," Merlin continues. "It's strongest at the base, near the runes, so only missiles can get through now. The spell won't break until I die."

"And how long is that?" Arthur asks. He wishes his voice had been colder.

Merlin's face twists unhappily. "Dunno. The magic's helping a little, but I'm going fast." Though the words are matter-of-fact, Merlin bites his lip and stares at the water, a shiver rattling his shoulders.

Arthur feels the cold in his chest. "You can't save yourself?" Then he realizes the fear was audible, so he adds, "For Camelot's sake."

Merlin throws him a bright-eyed glance and skewed smile. Then he stoops, brushing his fingers through the sand, picking through the stones. "Healing takes a lot of power—concentrated power, especially self-healing." He braces a hand and sinks into the sand with a breath like an old man's. "The magic created this world, but I can barely maintain it now." He sits, legs sprawling, watching the water. "I can't… focus the magic."

Arthur follows his gaze, breathing in that familiar mint. How much time did he have left? The mountains shine in the distance, the snow tinted gold under the sun.

"Kilgarrah—the dragon, it'll just leave, if—when I die. It won't attack Camelot." Merlin brushes the sand from a stone worn smooth by the waves.

 _Are you a dragon lord too?_ Arthur bites back the question for a more important one. "You're Emrys, then?" _Merlin never was?_

Merlin grimaces. The stone is clean of sand, flat and perfect for skipping. "The druids think so." He pushes off the stand, beginning to stand, and suddenly the world wavers like seeing through heat waves.

"Wait, you can't—!" Arthur cries, but then Merlin drops back into the sand and the vision refocuses.

"Sorry," Merlin gasps, rubbing his stomach. "Won't stand, then. Running out of time," he mutters, eyeing the stone like it's responsible.

Arthur had rushed forward in his panic and is now standing over Merlin. Merlin looks up. "You or me first?"

"What?"

"Last words. We're out of time—and I've got the important stuff, so I'll go first." He studies the stone, twisting it round and round, and says, "The sword's forged with the dragon's breath and is meant only for you. Make sure no one else ever wields it, or great evil can result."

Cold is clenching Arthur's heart and slowly twisting as reality begins to sink in.

"Don't worry about the druid. I'm pretty sure that was really Palengard in disguise, trying to lure me out. Or at least send you on a wild goose chase."

It must be freezing; Arthur's palms chill and his breath's quavering.

"Send Gaius my love, will you? He'll write my mum…" He trails off, staring into the lake. "Tell him… well, he's already been told once. So... Well. That's about it." Merlin breathes out, then suddenly locks Arthur in his stare. "Thank you."

Arthur blinks. Throat tight, he says, "For what?"

"For giving me a good purpose. I'm proud to die for you, even if I'm not proud of everything I've lived." He leans forward, neck craning up. "I've told you this before, but you will be a great king one day. The best, actually, and I know this for a fact. Even if you are a prat. It was an honor to serve you."

Arthur swallows. Merlin finally releases him from his stare and adds, voice whisping, "And thank you for not hating me, despite everything. This is… more than I could have hoped for."

Then he leans back onto one propped arm and says, "Your turn. Any last questions?"

The trees are quivering, but they make no sound now. The lake has stopped quibbling. Arthur's voice is stark against the silence when he says, "I never said I forgave you."

Merlin huffs out a breath and rocks his head to the side. "You haven't even hit me."

"You're dying."

"Not here."

"This isn't real."

"The punch would feel real."

"Shut up, Merlin. I thought this was my turn?"

Merlin smiles his most ornery smile, and Arthur's knees buckle.

He drops into the sand. His throat is constricting, but he forces out, "Why did you lie?"

Merlin raises his brows.

Arthur barks a damp laugh. "Alright, fine." He looks down as his hands, convulsively clenched into fists. "Was any of it real?"

A moment of dead silence. Then, soft, "I'm Merlin, not Emrys. I always have been."

Arthur nods. Those spattered memories, flickered by the magic, had told him as such.

He looks at Merlin, searching for that ripping guilt and grief permeating so many of the memories. He sees weariness, an age in the crescents under Merlin's eyes and in the curl to his spine, but none of the pent-up screaming. But the grandness… there was a flicker of it, now that Arthur was looking. But mostly it was just large ears and sharp bones and black hair and _Merlin._

The silence is absolute, that known only by the deaf and dead. In this, Arthur cannot bring himself to hate. Any judge of morality cannot hear them speak, and the only witness will fade too soon.

"I'll be needing a friend in the next life," Arthur says.

Merlin smiles, but it's tainted with some dark thought. "I'm sure you will, you prat."

"Idiot." He reaches out for Merlin's hair, but he manages to dodge it until the world wavers.

Panic shocks Arthur as he cries, "But you can't—"

It stabilizes, but Merlin's breathing quick and shallow. "Sorry, Arthur. I've got to go." He pulls back his arm and flings the stone.

"No! Wait!" Arthur reaches out, watching the stone sail towards the lake.

It skips four times, and the ripples shimmer darkness, stretching beyond the edge of the lake and across the horizon and sand and even to Merlin, so Arthur finds himself sitting cross-legged in the darkening vision. Merlin fades, his gaze clinging to Arthur even as his eyes widen, as if that vision of Arthur can anchor him to life.

Arthur reaches out into nothing. "But you haven't told me—"

* * *

Merlin stares at Arthur, desperately using that image to maintain some stability because the panic is dragging him into the undertow. _They're waiting for him._

He can hear the voices, whispers now but growing fast. There's no fighting this death; he's not immortal, and he knows there's no form to return to, that his body has failed him. He should be grateful for the goodbye his magic granted him, and the victory and friendship he has left in his wake.

The voices are a cacophony, and his breaths hurt from weight pressing his chest. The panic he'd felt these past years threatens to flood, and he's sweating even as his own body fades into the black, as if he can already feel the heat.

He starts to pick out individuals—Will's first, then Morgana's wail… He hears Freya's honey-rich voice, and he begins to cry as his mind slips into panicked _fire fire fire …_ Then there is no more air, and the fear burns away.

* * *

"—why," Arthur finishes, but he's kneeling on copper and his fingers are stretched to the stone wall of Camelot.

The dragon screams, and the crackling shield bursts, sending a tingling across Arthur that stands his hair on end.

Then there is only the army's roar, louder than ever and coming nearer.

Arthur only lifts up to confirm his horror—the gates are open and men are spilling through in a deluge of sound and glinting metal.

He drops to Merlin's side. His fingers press into the skin and receive no flashes of memory, and there are no new miracles beneath his feet. There's no pulse or breath.

Arthur leans back. The eyes are closed, but Arthur knows they're blue crystals.

A roar rips from his throat as he pounds a fist onto Merlin's chest. "You idiot! You're not supposed to die!"

Merlin's not hearing, Arthur knows; Merlin is far away, with the lake and the mountains and the memories and that stupid, stupid smile of a martyr, because dying in the name of Arthur is so much easier than living in the name of him!

"You're even more useless when you're dead, and that's—" But he chokes, voice breaking under the strain, and there's a wetness across his face fresher than the caking blood.

The army is coming, and Arthur will fight, hold them out of the castle so that people have a chance to escape out the back gates. He will fight until he too dies. And then he will _punch_ that idiot.

His wheezes, swallows—his throat's on fire—and pushes to one knee.

Distantly, he hears wood splinter. The doors of the castle.

"NO!" He roars to the sky, and falls back, hands fisted in Merlin's shirt. "No." His head falls forward onto the blood-soaked fabric. This is the apocalypse, a red sky and evil's army destroying his world, and their only savior has bled out on the roof.

"Come back," he whispers.

The grief rips his chest, and he gasps against the pain, tearing his throat raw with each breath, and he knows that this is what it's like to be without hope.


	7. Chapter 7

Arthur reaches the bottom of the stairs and raises his sword, eyes drained dry and heart buried under the pulsing rage to fight. The enemy has not reaches this back hall yet, but he can hear the chaos from just around the corner—the roars, the too-high wailing of women. He runs forward.

He rounds the corner, and the first thing he sees are characters jumping out of the tapestries.

Warriors encased in dated armor clamber out of the green stitching, wielding primitive swords—primitive but effective, Arthur notices, as the six knights dispatch Palengard's blue-dressed soldiers. Women in cone hats lift their skirts and step out, skipping along the walls to usher Camelot's women down a side passage, while an entire hunt, complete with a dozen curled-tail hounds and four horsemen, leaps into the melee. The dogs howl and the horses scream, and the line of new allies brings the tide of blue soldiers to a bloody deadlock.

Arthur gapes, but shakes his head and adjusts his grip, determined to fight even in his insanity.

He gets one step before the windows shatter, the wind screaming and shards flying into the soldiers, crammed too close in the stone halls. Their yelling pitches high into fear.

Clanking from behind, and Arthur turns to see knights run past him, swinging axes and clunky broadswords and dressed in total armor—he catches the glimpse through one visor and sees nothing. They _are_ the suits of armor that usually line Camelot's halls, antiques or artworks, but now they charge into the battle.

Four, eight, twelve pass Arthur…

Cries for retreat begin to pick up. Some of Palengard's men aren't waiting for the order, and they flee from the strange army.

So this is what he meant by his death causing the magic to go haywire. Arthur huffs at the understatement.

A troupe of rats scamper down the hall, between Arthur's legs and along the walls, and disappear into the fray. They vanish in the crowd, but he sees at least a few men start hopping, trying to shake something free of their legs.

"Only you, Merlin," Arthur mutters. He turns and runs, planning a new route to the Great Hall. Most of his people would be sheltering there along with the injured, and he might be able to organize some sort of cohesive defense from there.

Despite himself, he laughs.

* * *

The journey to the hall is the strangest Arthur has ever experienced.

He passes by huddled citizens trying to escape, and he points them to the back exit through the kitchen. Their faces shine with relief at seeing him, but he never stops.

But they're not the only ones. He runs past empty tapestries, rimmed in flowers but devoid of characters. He meets some materialized people—a jester in a belled hat, an archer with pointed shoes, nobles in tights and carrying lyres—and yells, "Follow me! The Great Hall!" Soon he's leading a bizarre procession.

More rats and mice scurry past in formations.

He runs into a grander hallway, near the Great Hall, with stained-glass windows. He's already past the first two before he notices that they're empty too, just a solid background tone. A couple have been blown in by the wind, and crows, falcons, even starlings are fluttering through, cawing and tittering as they hop from sill to sill, seeking eyes to peck.

Doors slam and creak, blocking enemies and allowing passage to others. A shadow, cast by a statue, twists and swims across the ground, skating faster than Arthur and slipping under the door at the end of the hallway. He cannot imagine what kind of death it brings.

He rushes towards the door. The latch lifts and the door swings open invitingly, and he and his trail of figures jog through.

There's a figure striding down the hall, and Arthur splits into a smile at _finally_ seeing a familiar face. "Leon!"

He skids to a halt, but his followers continue towards the Hall, which is waiting just around this final corner.

His friend's jaw drops and they clasp arms. "Sire! My God, it's good to see you! We feared you were lost—"

Arthur takes off, Leon jogging alongside. "All that later. Report."

Leon laughs. "It's utter madness. The whole castle has risen against Palengard's men, and well! They nearly reached the doors of the Hall, but the castle has turned them back."

Around the corner, and the doors are there, flanked by four more of Arthur's men. They are bedraggled and bandaged, but they're alive, and when they see Arthur they light in surprise and questions.

"Sire, how—!"

"The castle's alive!"

"You're alive!"

He waves them back to their stations and placates with, "Later, men. Stand firm; that army is large and may be back."

The doors creak open of their own accord, and Arthur steps through to meet the eyes of a thousand refugees.

* * *

From that point, the victory is too easy.

Personally, Arthur suspects the rats are the final straw. They latch on to ankles and swarm; they don't kill, but they certainly frighten and trip. All Arthur and his men do is usher the fleeing men in the right direction, though that's a slow process. Buckles spontaneously snap, causing soldiers to trip over their own belts, and stairs shift beneath their feet. Any who dare to face a knight find their blades burn hot or snap free of the hilts.

They pass a hall close to the kitchens, and several men are knocked out by tapestry maidens wielding pans. Most of the men are mercenaries, Arthur knows, with no motivation to kill now; he orders them made prisoners and plans to release them later.

Arthur runs out into the courtyard, tailing a few meters behind the last two dozen rat-laden and bird-pecked men, sword raised but unused. They rush through the gates hollering.

Swarms of crows and falcons circle from beyond the wall, periodically diving. Wind whips his hair in angry gusts. In front of him, a tree root forces its way up through the stonework, tripping a soldier.

He hears the howling and squealing of wolves and boars, though he cannot see any through the narrow view of the gates.

He orders his men to stop at the gate. They watch these last soldiers flee down the wrecked streets of the city, leaping over fires and charred bodies. Only a fraction of the army actually entered the castle, Arthur realizes; most had been killed or turned tail upon Palengard's death.

The suits of armor begin marching back inside. The hunting party from the tapestry reconvenes in the courtyard, the horses' eyes rolling and tails arched high, the dogs running circles. The riders bow their heads to Arthur as they head back, the horses picking their way up the steps.

He stands, counting faces. Many of his closest knights are there, bleeding but upright, but when he asks after Alymere he gets shaken heads.

The birds scatter, the rats vanish into cracks, tree roots retreat back into the ground, the wind settles. The howling fades into the distance.

Arthur and his men stand alone. The silence presses his mind like death, and he clutches to their breaths, mind temporarily blanking in the wake of Merlin's sacrifice.

A drop hits the back of his palm; horrified, he looks down but sees a line of water slide across tendons.

It pours, the water cold and pure, and slowly the red sky fades to gray.

The men begin to cheer. Arthur wishes Merlin were here.

* * *

_No._

The order is a current pushing against knees.

_No._

Magic winds tight like a lyre string under the compellation and plucks a reminding pitch, calling.

_Come back._

The magic snaps.

And the whip-sting startles him into being and light fractures into his eyes and he heaves in air and sound floods in and the metal burns skin and gods the breeze is a million feathers and the magic has filled his drained veins and is singing singing singing to obey and before he remembers anything it overflows into the stone and seeps the whole castle in shining gold that only he can see through the white glare.

* * *

Minutes pass in a haze of exhaustion, the magic overwhelming him and surging through, drowning his own willpower beyond that instinctual call. There's only gold in his mind: gold hair, gold glory, gold magic…

Time passes, and slowly the magic settles back into him, crackling raw. He breathes, letting it pull back like the tide. It leaves behind the grit of senses, far quieter than that initial surge.

_Why am I here?_

He knows he was dead; he remembers Arthur and falling into black, though nothing after. And the magic, sparkling and rushing through him like a broken dam, tells him as much. He was supposed to stay dead; even if self-resurrection were possible, he had resigned himself to judgment in the afterlife because he'd managed to redeem himself in this one. Palengard was dead, Arthur had the sword, and somehow Arthur forgave him, though his death was an implied condition of that friendship.

He breathes in, out. His whole body aches, and the ground rotates beneath him. He daren't open his eyes yet, so to distract himself, he tries sorting through the tumult of noise beating his ears.

Women's voices, and though some are crying, there's laughter and cheering, and that proves that the war is over. Happiness softens the pain for a moment.

A sudden question crosses his mind. _Kilgarrah?_ He projects the thought, and the pain pulses in his mind. He winces and lifts a hand—the movement's not worth the sore burn, and he lets it fall back onto metal.

Metal? Curiosity has him slitting his eyes before he can catch himself, and the light pierces through white-hot and he hisses _sharp sharp sharp_ and the gold surges in his panic because he's going to die all over again…

_Merlin!_

Merlin finds himself on his side, both hands against his head. His eyes slit again. The light doesn't hurt much, but things glare to brightness, blurring white. He blinks, trying to focus, and thinks, _How long have you been calling?_ A winced pain, but less than before.

 _That was my fifth try._ The rumble gives away no concern. _Welcome back to life._

There's amusement in that message. Merlin breathes quick, sorting through the pain-sight and the magic-sight to reality. _I don't feel welcomed._

_Patience, warlock. Balance will return in time._

He stares at the copper plating in front of him, the mint sprouting from the stone, and the caking blood. He'd laugh at the absurdity, but that would definitely rattle him into unconsciousness.

 _Are you hurt?_ He asks. He gets a chuckle in return. _You've gone,_ he realizes, feeling the faintest rush of air that's miles away.

_Once you returned._

_But this is impossible,_ he thinks. Unless he cannot be killed with a sword... Arthur's taunting voice echoes off the plating— _not human—_ and Merlin scans the stone to Palengard's body, Arthur's armor too large for his true form.

_Arthur commanded you return. You had no way to refuse._

The words loop through Merlin's mind, processing while he watches the mint sprouts wobble in the breeze. He breathes out, bending one in half. Muscles strain across his stomach as if cinched too tight, and the weight of sleep presses him to the stone.

Merlin blinks, in and out of sleep; he passes into a doze, and has a half-dream of cupping blue light in his palm.

The clouds, still red, rumble. Merlin sucks in air and forces open his eyes, the light burning against his aching head. He forces the thought out, a word with each breath: _Like… the light. Fevered. He called._

A wing-beat's pause. _Perhaps._

A sharp wind rattles the mint in frenzy.

Merlin breathes in. The exhaustion blurs across. Out. He just remembers the unsettling. _Kilg…_

Kilgarrah sends a reassuring throat-throb. It is Dragon, and Merlin's spine softens.

Water splatters onto his skin, the stinging startling him, and then it pours cold, pinging off the plating.

Merlin watches the rain wash away the blood until he drowns in sleep.

* * *

Arthur retrieves the body alone.

He has little time, even after the battle is officially over. People need guided back to their homes, and those with destroyed property need arrangements made. There are dead knights, a worried father to placate, and above all: the magic.

People are grieving and shell-shocked, drained by panic and battle; they stare at him with wide-eyed questions, but shuffle out in silence. They are still processing the victory and its costs. Some, Arthur know, will accept it with far more ease than he.

The knights, bless them, are happy to obey his orders in their turned-over world. They ask no questions, trusting that he'll restore order in time. Perhaps they are too trusting.

He has yet to really report to his father, though he'd dropped in briefly and tried to reassure him.

"We've won, father," he'd said, voice loud in his father's chambers. "The dragon and magic have gone. All is well."

His father scoffed. The lines carved deep fans from his eyes, and he sank into his chair as if defeated.

Arthur curled his hands behind his back, suddenly angry at the ingratitude.

It wasn't until he saw Guinevere that the hot rage collapsed, because her eyes were so opposite, melting with beautiful sympathy.

"It's Gaius," she says, caramel eyes shining. "He's grief-stricken. He won't talk. Oh Arthur, it's Merlin, isn't it?"

Arthur can't meet her tears, so he nods to the ground. He'd broken the news to the physician himself, pulling him aside and forcing himself to speak for the poor man's sake. If he'd waited any longer, he'd never have had the courage.

"I know he saved us," he'd said. "No matter the means, he died a hero."

Gaius' grizzled face was frozen still as death. "He was always a hero, sire. He wanted to die a friend."

Arthur retreated, heart hurting.

Gwen chokes a sob, and he wraps his arms around her. Even she is bloodstained from her work in the infirmary.

"He was so silly," she sobs, "and so kind. It's not right."

Arthur forces a swallow and stares over her curls down the empty stone hall.

"He was a good friend," he says.

Now he climbs the steps alone, the spiraling turret silent but for the rush of rain. His body and mind ache with exhaustion.

Only he and Gaius know what Merlin has done, and Arthur wants to keep it that way. Better to have Merlin a common casualty than a magician traitor, which would implicate Gaius as well. But that means removing Merlin from a sight that didn't see battle—and is filled with signs of magic.

It is Arthur's duty. He tells this to himself as he climbs the stairs, but halfway up he leans against the wall, stopped by the ripping in his chest, the pressure that makes him want to yell—and he remembers this; it was in Merlin's memories too, the ones that flickered past fast and sharp as knives. Now it's his.

He bites back the yell and climbs, mind swallowed in sudden numbness.

He hardly feels the water soak his hair and slip under his armor as he shuffles across the battlement toward the body, sidestepping Palengard's carcass. The rain has plastered Merlin's clothes to his emaciated frame, making him so small.

Arthur kneels and tries not to look at the still face, but he glimpses and his breath catches. He looks down and rolls Merlin onto his back so that he can pick him up.

The head rocks and a knee bends, accompanied by a sleep-garbled mutter. Then stillness—but for the rise and fall of his chest.

Arthur just stares, watching that up-and-down until he's soaked through.

He only notices the passed time when the rain begins to thin, and even then he cannot say how long he's sat, looking. Daring, just daring, he tries thinking it: _Merlin's alive._

Rise, fall. He tries again, fearing this reality will shatter: _Merlin's alive._ Rise, fall. Rise, fall.

It floods through and froths over, and suddenly he's laughing, face raised to the rain, and a tear's lost to the downpour.

Merlin grumbles at the fuss, head rocking towards Arthur, and his brows furrow. "Nah yea'."

Arthur falls forward, hands fisting in Merlin's shirt, and through the laughter he exclaims, "You're _asleep!_ I cannot _believe_ you're asleep! Only you!"

Two eyes split open, blue as sky but slouched in sleep. They track up to Arthur's face, completely unimpressed. "M'day off. Res'rected cuz of you, prat."

Arthur beams. "You've used all your holidays, _Mer_ lin. And it's not my fault."

Merlin scowls up at him. "'Tis. You called f'me." He winces and raises a hand to his temple, but his eyes are sharpening. They flicker back to Arthur, and suddenly they widen. "Arthur." He braces up on his elbows, the struggle leaving him breathing quick, so Arthur pulls him up to sitting. Merlin sways and brings both hands to his head, but his eyes skitter to Arthur in wide waiting.

Arthur's still swimming in joy, stunned by it, so he reassures, laughter flickering the words, "We've won, thanks to you. Well, you and the rats."

Merlin scoots back and slumps against the wall, the heel of his palm pressing a temple. The panic softens in curiosity. "Rats?"

"Swarms of them. And the shadows! You meant it when you said things would go crazy."

A half-smile skims across Merlin. "Got away from me from a bit," he admits. "It's all settled now," he adds hastily. "It won't happen again, I promise."

Arthur shakes his head and raises his palms, still chuckling.

Merlin gulps, looking anything but happy. "I'm sorry," he says, and the ground drops out from under Arthur. He freezes, knees cold against the copper, and stares into Merlin's eyes.

Heart skittering, he blurts, "You are alive, right? This isn't some trick?"

Merlin shakes his head, hair sopping. The rain has fallen to a drizzle. "No, no, I'm really alive." His words have begun to shiver with the cold, and his hands wander to the edge of his shirt and worry the fraying edge.

First there's relief, but then Arthur's eyes narrow. "You sound guilty. _Why_ do you sound guilty?"

Merlin's hands stop and he blinks at Arthur. "Because I was supposed to die," he says, as if Arthur had just asked something profoundly obvious.

Visions of plagues and reapers fill Arthur's mind. "Has this… unbalanced things?"

Merlin's brows furrow in confusion. "Magically?" He flutters a hand toward the stairs, encompassing all that had happened. "All that madness was the aftershock. It's settled now."

"Oh. That wasn't… never mind." _That was you alive?_ He blinks rain from his eyes. "Then what's the problem?"

Merlin still looks confused. "Well, now I'm here."

"I fail to see the problem with that. Besides it being wet, I mean."

Merlin opens his mouth, but suddenly it clacks shut.

The singing copper has fallen silent; Arthur holds out his palm, but there isn't even a mist.

Merlin's staring at him, skin shining wet. Arthur's palm drops. "What?"

His eyes narrow in outright suspicion. "Why are…" He trails off, eyes shifting across Arthur's face.

" _What?"_

"I don't get it," Merlin says at last.

"Nothing new there."

Merlin huffs an exhale and blurts, "Why are you like this?"

Arthur's so confused he sits back on his legs. "What the hell are—" _I don't remember._ "Oh. You don't remember?"

"Remember what?"

Arthur waves an arm, trying to capture everything. "The, that—lake, and all the…" Merlin's beginning to give him that You're-Crazy look, so he says, "What _do_ you remember?"

Merlin's eyes drift to the space beyond Arthur's shoulder. The blue fades to ocean depths. "There were two of you." His palms spread across his stomach, the fabric stained dark purple. It stretches under his hands, and raw pink peaks through the tear. "Palengard."

Arthur nods. Merlin's lips are tinting blue in the wet, and his bones rattle in a shiver. "Okay. Well, I assume you killed him, because next thing I remember I'm in the dream-world talking to you." He tilts his head at Arthur. "That was the magic's creation, not mine."

Arthur shakes his head at the implied apology. "I'm glad for it."

The grin is lopsided but the mutuality's genuine. "Yeah." Then he shrugs. "Then you ordered me back." He sounds accusatory, like Arthur has stomped into his room on a Saturday dawn and yelled him awake with orders.

"I don't understand what you mean," Arthur says, fear cooling his happiness. "I didn't _do_ anything. I couldn't have!"

Merlin shivers in the wet. Rubbing circles on his temple, he says in an unsteady voice, "You did, though. You gave me an order, and the magic obeyed you." At Arthur's look, he adds, "It's complicated."

"How complicated?"

"Very, v-very complicated." He grimaces at the stutter and draws his knees to his chest. But then he's staring at Arthur with that same suspicious look. "You did it again."

"Did _what?"_

"Didn't react."

"React to what?"

Merlin hugs his knees and picks at the rips there. "The magic. You're not... angry. Uneasy," he amends. He looks back to Arthur, a tilted, wary glance, and huddles in a tangle of limbs.

The memories, Arthur realizes. All those memories, the emotions, the grief and guilt and that blazing loyalty… He'd _been_ Merlin, for flickered moments; how can he distrust that?

He hasn't even noticed his nonchalance until now, however, and this startles him. The memories have been absorbed into him; he felt the song in Merlin's blood, the crushing responsibility. Unless those memories were all a magical manipulation… Arthur grimaces at the rut and fists his hands, forcing himself not to slip into that endless circling. If he is to stay sane, he has to accept their truth.

Those were only moments. With a wince, he remembers that even those seconds had reduced him to a pleading ball on the ground.

"Sire?"

Can Merlin really be sitting there, sane, with all those memories?

Obviously the connection had been unintentional, another symptom of the wild magic; Merlin doesn't remember them being sent. Arthur considers telling him; it's the honorable thing to do, and after all the secrets—and he doesn't doubt there are many, many more—adding another would set a bad precedent. So many stories, so many secrets. He remembers a shattered window, and wonders.

But then Arthur hesitates. Some of those were gouged places, still raw. He shifts his weight beneath him, suddenly guilty. He tries to imagine his mind, fragmented and incomplete, playing across someone's sight, and the horror twists in his heart; he rattles his head, hisses out a breath, and shakes away the embarrassment.

"Arthur, I didn't mean—I—pleasedon'thateme."

Arthur's startled back to the present. "Come again?"

Merlin's scrunches even smaller. "You want to kill me."

Arthur splutters, so shocked that he can only resort to, "I haven't even hit you!"

"Exactly. You're too calm." Merlin braces off the wall, tucking his feet beneath, but doesn't yet dare to stand. Pausing for breath, he says, "I'm sorry, really I am, for putting you in this spot. You shouldn't—" He catches himself, but the hard stare into the distance gives him away.

"Have brought you back?" Arthur finishes.

Merlin's lips flatten. "We'd sorted everything out."

Suddenly Arthur remembers a taunting man, breaths harsh around the arrow shaft. _What are you going to do? Kill me?_ Arthur had said no, had even offered kind words; the man was dying and had saved them. There hadn't been any point in hate.

Standing at the lake, he had thought much the same thing of Merlin.

 _He wanted to die a friend._ And he had, at the lake, because Arthur had shown the kind of mercy he does to all the dying. Now Merlin expects Arthur to retract that friendship.

Those songs in Merlin's blood were not dutiful hymns for a master, but screaming minors of improvised friendship. Arthur remembers his own mourning from just minutes before, the sense of slipping down a too-steep hill to fall into black. He is still mourning, on some level, the loss of an innocent friend, the naïve belief that not everyone carries tangled secrets. He'd _liked_ Merlin's simplicity. He couldn't trust him to do a good job, but he could trust his humor and loyalty. He was an escape.

That was only the surface, a glare off the water meant to blind. He could not see past the glimmer, and had assumed the water shallow. Now he has swum in the deep dark sea.

The clouds roil, bunching into folds and highlighting at the creases. Wails and laughter echo off the stone. A dog barks.

Arthur sighs and stands, muscles pulling stiff. The movement startles Merlin back, his head tilting up with Arthur's rise.

"Come on," Arthur says, and holds out a hand. "You'll catch your death out here."

"Bit late for that, isn't it?"

Arthur's look is dry. "What have I told you about being funny?"

Merlin eyes the open palm. "To where?"

"Gaius'."

"Then where?"

Arthur rolls his eyes heavenward. "Merlin, shut up."

"If you're going to execute me—"

"I'm not," he snaps.

Merlin blinks. Suddenly hot, Arthur drops his hand and gazes out at his Camelot, washed of blood and fire. The clouds roil, but the sun doesn't break through. Amid the chaos below a woman sings a few bars of hymn, but her voice slides sharp and the music sputters out.

"I'm magic, Arthur."

Arthur snorts. "I hadn't noticed."

"Letting me live would be treason."

Arthur's jaw clenches and he snarls, "Do you _want_ me to kill you?"

"No." A shiver wracks Merlin, and he slumps back to sitting. "But I don't understand why you aren't."

"Neither do I," Arthur says, automatic. "It would spare me a lot of grief." But he knows he has already made this decision. He has already seen himself kill Merlin, and seen that it does not restore order or clear the smeared gray in his black-lined justice. Arthur has felt the loneliness, and killed the monster he becomes.

"But—" He reaches out and grabs Merlin's arms, pulling him up to standing. "I'd be bored."

Merlin gasps, startled and pained by the movement, and his knees fold; Arthur guides his fall so he ends slumped over the battlement, forehead pressed to the stone and palms spread wide.

"Owww," he moans, eyes shut. A couple sucked breaths, then, "This is worse than Beltane."

Arthur smirks, recalling Merlin's overhung absence the day following the festival. "I always suspected food poisoning was a lie."

Merlin groans. "Should've known. You won't even let me die in peace."

"And let you shirk all your chores?" Arthur sniffs. "You aren't getting off that easily."

Suddenly Merlin's beaming that stupid smile, cheek squashed against the stone. "I bet you've kept a list."

"It's a mile long, you lazy sod. I've got a child doing a better job than you." He's still smiling, even as he shoves off the stone and sways, this time remaining upright. It unsettles Arthur, and it takes him a moment to figure out _why_ Merlin's grinning like a moron.

Quickly backtracking, he says, "I may make the replacement permanent. I'd forgotten what it was like to be treated with respect."

"I missed you too." He's still smiling, the silly git, even with the blue-tinted lips.

"You're owed a punch," Arthur says. "Would you like it now?"

Bracing his hand against the battlement, Merlin says, "No respect for the dead."

"You're not dead." Watching Merlin shiver, he adds, "Yet," and grabs Merlin's upper arm. His hand wraps over halfway around. Slowly easing him forward, Arthur says, "Gaius', now. You look wretched."

"I _look_ like death warmed over." Merlin shuffles forward, cautiously adding weight to Arthur's hold.

"Shut up, Merlin."

* * *

His head pulses with the blood, and the light still aches, and the scarred-over muscle feels like it's tearing.

Arthur's hand is warm on his arm. Merlin can feel the heat along his whole side, soft against the wet and numbness. They shuffle along a few moments, then Merlin dares a hoarse, "It's a long story."

Arthur doesn't seem to hear. Three steps later, he says, "Yours always are."

The thought of telling leaves Merlin cold, afraid of toppling this stunning faith. "It's ugly," he warns. "I…" The muscles along his front seize, and his breath hitches and he lurches to a halt.

Arthur's hold tightens on his arm. "Merlin?"

Merlin sways into the grip, and his free arm wraps around his torso. "Know why people stay dead," he gasps, and tries to press warmth into his stomach. "Easier."

He stands, pain tugging with each breath, and considers telling Arthur to leave him for a few more days.

"Breathe deep," Arthur suggests, "and try talking; it'll distract you. Not that you need encouragement."

Merlin daren't laugh. He eyes the doorway ahead, dark and holding a spiral staircase. Getting down that will be interesting. "I expected you to banish me."

The shifting stills and the grip squeezes. "Different topic, Merlin."

He shakes his head. He can feel the muscles warming, slowly unwinding. Taking a swallow of air, he says, "I may be evil." He stares into the black archway.

"You're not evil."

The certainty turns Merlin's eyes to Arthur. "How can you know?" _I don't._

Arthur meets his gaze, choosing his words. He is… not sympathetic, maybe, but certainly knowing. Far too knowing for someone so dense.

Suddenly Merlin recognizes the warmth from Arthur's palm as more than body heat. It's his own magic, just traces of it, but certainly there. He concentrates, tasting the familiarity of it, trying to see…

_Oh._

"Merlin?" His arm is shaken. "Merlin."

His breathing is spiking, pain forgotten, as horror freezes cold in his blood. _He saw he saw he saw oh gods_ and he tugs free, stumbling back, staring at Arthur's too-knowing sky eyes. Breaths come quick and shallow, and he backs, frantically sorting through the magic, trying to see which memories he'd actually been sent… He feels shamed, and he folds small, arms crossed and shoulders hunched, and he stumbles back into the corner.

He curses, and Arthur's eyes widen in surprise and realization. "The memories."

"You didn't say!" Merlin cries. "I didn't—I wouldn't—" He feels a flush of heat along his skin, and he accuses, "You didn't!" As much as he feared explaining, he would at least have had some control over Arthur's perception, a chance to construct a more tolerable version of himself. But Arthur's already witnessed it, unedited with all his wrongs and emotions. "Argh!"And he lifts his numb hands to his face, folding into the dark.

He breathes, embarrassment and violation warring with exhaustion. He picks through the pieces, wincing at his magic's choices.

From beyond his shell, he hears, "They were only moments."

Merlin groans.

He hears a boot scuff, Arthur wisely keeping his distance. "It's not that bad."

This is so audacious that Merlin drops his hands to stare. "Not that—I'm— _Why_ did you bring me back!"

Arthur's gaze softens into pity, and this is almost worse than the nightmares.

"Shut up," Merlin snarls.

Arthur's brows rise. "I didn't say anything."

"You were thinking it."

His arms cross. "Mind reading, are we?"

"That's your job." Merlin glares. Cart wheels clatter below. Arthur stares back, a corner of his jaw stuttering in a held-back grin. "You think this is funny."

"Your reaction certainly is." Arthur saunters forward and reaches for Merlin, but he tucks his arm back and demands, "How can you pardon me?" The guilt bleeds into his sleep and frightens the wind enough to shatter windows. He has done evil for the good, and because someone has to take the punishment for the glory, he'd bled. The story's told in the stained glass; he just didn't expect the resurrection.

Arthur's eyes shine blue, lighter and smoother than Merlin's, which are chipped and flecked. The shelter under his jaw is still smeared with gore.

Instead of answering, Arthur says, "I didn't get to finish my question." He's still staring, hard, and Merlin shifts under the unaccustomed knowing. There's a message in the gaze. "At the lake, I asked you why you do this."

The wind weaves through Arthur's hair, gold as the emblem on his tunic, and simultaneous mourning and celebration echoes off the stone. Merlin swallows, trying to see the point in this question, the words in the rim of his iris. Beyond, the gray clouds roll, shading uneven as the sun struggles to split through.

He opens his mouth to speak, then catches when he realizes he is not going to say, _Destiny says I have to._ Initially, it was true, or even that he has nothing better to do, but now they taste like weak excuses for something truer.

Then his memory flashes an echo of panic at the moment when Arthur had faded from his dying vision, when the voices had been coming. He remembers the blind fear of death, but he had not run. He had swallowed tears, in that tipping moment when his chest stopped rising but he still felt real. He had remembered gold, and thought, _I accept my sentence._

Arthur already knows why. In the gray striped with the blue in his eyes, Merlin recognizes the answer. Color saturates and the air is sharp in his lungs, and he feels hollow light with the peace that he does not deny the deaths in his wake, nor the crimes he has committed. But he'd do it again, because abstract destiny is not who he thought of when he died.

Merlin says, "Because you're worth burning for."

Arthur bursts into a white-bright smile just as the first flame of sun lights Merlin in glorious fire.


End file.
